Sulmar did not wait for the goblins to attack or seize the Staff. He charged. His black blade knocked aside a dagger and pierced the chest of its owner. He deflected a blow with his shield and twisted away from a claw that sliced through the right side of his shirt. He pulled his sword free of the dead goblin’s chest and continued the motion in a smooth arc, cutting through the knees of another attacker. As that goblin fell, the Tengarian sidestepped another attack, tripped another goblin, and used the motion of his spin to hurl his shield like a throwing disk.

  The shield flew through the air, heading straight for Chentelle. She jumped to the side, ducking for cover, and the disk flew over her left shoulder. It crashed into the chest of a surprised goblin, knocking him off the roof of the companionway and into the water. She hadn’t even seen him!

  By the time she turned back, Sulmar was the only figure standing amidships. A small pile of goblins lay dead or dying at his feet. Freed of the shield, the Tengarian now wielded both a vorpal weapon and his own dark sword. He made a quick check to insure that none of the fallen were feigning injury, then ran to join the battle at the bow.

  When Sulmar reached the barricade, he vaulted over it without hesitating. The twin swords lashed out, felling two goblins before his feet hit the deck. He became a blur of movement, his body flowing unerringly from one technique to the next. He seemed to react to every attack before it was launched, deflecting it with a smooth motion or sliding gracefully out of the way. The Tengarian danced among the goblins, sounding the rhythm of battle with the cries of his enemies. He was a whirlwind of destruction, cutting a swath of death through the goblin ranks.

  The Legionnaires rallied around his assault. Dacius and his men drove into the confused and demoralized goblins. In moments, not a goblin remained standing. The rout was complete.

  Chentelle realized that this was the first time she had seen Sulmar fight when he was at full strength. He had been injured when she met him, and weak from loss of blood. But the time in the Holy Land had enabled him to recover completely. That land of peace had, ironically, enabled him to become a terror in combat.

  Sulmar remained in a crouch at the bow, swinging his twin swords slowly before him in a graceful, almost hypnotic pattern. Blood enveloped him. It matted his hair. It stained his clothes. It dripped from his blades and splashed in pools on the deck. But the Tengarian’s face remained calm, impassive. His expression never wavered as he moved slowly among the mass of bodies. Occasionally, one of his blades would break from its pattern, striking out to nick a face or prick a hand. But each time, the caution proved unnecessary.

  Chentelle watched in horror and fascination as Sulmar completed his inspection. As he came to the last body, he dropped to one knee and laid one of his swords across the figure’s chest. He used the other to cut two strips of cloth from the goblin’s tunic. With quiet efficiency he wiped his blades clean and returned them to their scabbards. Then he turned toward Chentelle.

  “Mistress, the deck is safe.”

  Chentelle moved slowly away from the shelter of the companionway. She tried to absorb the scene before her. Everything was eerily quiet; even the wind was still. The Legionnaires seemed frozen in place, eyes glued to her liegeman. A’stoc knelt near the mast clutching the Staff to his chest and rocking silently back and forth. It felt dreamlike, unreal. She wondered for a moment whether it was a dream. But the planks creaked softly under her feet, and the air was thick with bile and sweat and a bitter odor she couldn’t place. And Father Marcus held Simon’s lifeless body in his arms.

  “Man the sails!” Captain Rone’s shout cut through the silence, sparking them into action. “Paun! Call the wind, man! We need the sagewind!”

  But there was no answer.

  Chentelle darted quickly below deck. The shipsage lay prone on one of the dining tables. His breath came in ragged gasps and a small pool of spittle had collected near the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open but unseeing. Chentelle put a hand to his forehead and felt the yawning pit of his fatigue. It would be a long time before Paun summoned another wind. She closed his eyes and slid a rolled blanket under his head. Then she ran back up the stairs.

  “It’s no use, captain,” she said. “He can’t respond.”

  Rone turned and looked behind them. The warship had come around and was gaining ground quickly, propelled by a goblin sagewind. “Wizard A’stoc, can you fill our sails?”

  The mage looked up at them, but he did not answer. After a moment, he lowered his head and started rocking again.

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle rushed to his side. His face and hands were covered with dozens of small cuts and scratches, but he did not seem to be seriously hurt. “A’stoc, what is wrong? Are you hurt?”

  The wizard lurched to his feet. “Hel’s Heart, enchantress, do you still not understand? It is over. We are doomed. The Ill-creature sustains their wizards. We cannot outrun them. And this”—he pounded the Staff against the deck—“this mightiest of weapons, is useless.”

  The wizard threw his head back and started laughing shrilly. “Don’t you see? It is a fine joke, the final punctuation on my illustrious apprenticeship. The Tree of Life, enchantress, the Staff was created from the Tree of Life. Its power cannot be used against living creatures.”

  He dropped back to the deck, shaking with laughter that bordered on tears. His words became soft, nearly inaudible. “Damn you, A’pon Boemarre. Why did you destroy the book? Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “Mistress.” Sulmar placed a hand on her shoulder. “You should seek cover. They are nearly within bowshot.”

  She waved him off. “A’stoc, don’t give up. We need you. If the Staff can’t defeat them, then we’ll think of something else. But you have to call the sagewind. We need more time!”

  Father Marcus came up beside them. The old priest managed to look serene despite the blood which stained his robes and hands. “She is right, wizard. It is not yet time to despair. The Creator has not forsaken us. Call the wind. We must not abandon hope.”

  “Hope!” A’stoc shouted. He slapped his hand against the torn planking. “Your hope is ashes, priest, like the dead wood of this floating coffin.”

  “Cover!”

  The shout came from behind them. Chentelle was pressed to the deck as Sulmar tried to guard her from the missile barrage. The Tengarian caught most of the arrows on his shield, but several shafts landed on the deck around them, splashing vitriol across the planks. Chantelle cried out as the acid burned into her hand.

  A’stoc, too, had been caught in the spray. His cheek sizzled and smoked hideously. The wizard’s whole body trembled, but he made no move to wipe away the caustic liquid. In fact, he seemed to be almost smiling as it burned.

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle tried to go to him, but Sulmar’s grip kept her pressed to the deck. The deck!

  “A’stoc, the wood!” she yelled. “Their ship is dead wood, too. Use the Staff on the wood!”

  If he heard her at all, he made no sign.

  “Steady,” came Dacius’s voice. “They’re still at extreme range. The next flights will be worse.”

  “Let go!” Chentelle pulled herself free of Sulmar’s grasp and scrambled over to the wizard. She grabbed his face and made him look at her while she repeated her words, but still there was no reaction.

  “Ready shields!”

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle reached out with her Gift. She didn’t have the time to develop her song fully, to ease the wizard’s pain and coax him back to reality. She just summoned all of her need, all of her desperation, and poured it into him. Her words rang into the human’s soul. “A’stoc, you have to act. You have to save us.”

  The wizard’s face went blank as her power flowed through him. He got to his feet, raising the Staff above his head. Almost instantly, the power of the Staff burst forth. Green flames poured from the wood, engulfing A’stoc and then leaping upward in a broad sheet of fire. The flames formed into a huge wall that hovered in the air between the Treachery and the goblin warship. Pinpricks of flashing light marked the impacts of the goblin bolts as they flared into nothingness.

  As soon as the flight of missiles was over, the flames started to shift again. Power continued to pour from the Staff as the wall rose higher into the air and drifted toward the warship. It formed into a spinning disk of fire, hovering just above the warship’s sails. Then it started to descend.

  Shafts of power rose up from the deck as the goblin wizards tried to counter A’stoc’s power, but they had no effect on the disk’s motion. The fires pressed closer and closer to the warship. Her masts were blasted into shards, and her sails burst into flame like dry parchment. Goblin seamen leaped from the rigging, diving into the sea to escape the destruction. The disk continued its motion, destroying everything in its path until it hovered less than a dozen cubits above the warship’s deck. Then it flashed violently and dissolved into nothingness.

  “By the Creator,” Father Marcus said. “Such power, I never dreamed—” He shook his head, bemused.

  Captain Rone shouted orders to his crew. The Treachery eased forward on the little bit of natural wind. They were barely moving, but it was enough. The warship was crippled. They watched it fall slowly behind.

  “Safe,” A’stoc said. Then he fell to the deck.

  Chentelle dropped to his side, reaching out with her Gift. The wizard’s face was badly burned, and he had dozens of scrapes and bruises, but those injuries were minor. It was fatigue that had caused him to collapse. He had exhausted every reserve of strength to summon the Staff’s power. Gently, Chentelle caressed the man with her own power, guiding him into a deep and restful sleep.

  Suddenly, A’stoc’s eyes snapped open. He shoved Chentelle aside and lurched to his feet, grabbing the Thunderwood Staff almost instinctively.

  “Out!” he roared. “How dare you! I will not be your puppet, child! I will—”

  A’stoc’s eyes rolled backward and he staggered to the deck, Staff slipping once again from limp fingers.

  Brother Gorin scurried past Chentelle and squatted by the wizard’s side. His deep voice rumbled in quiet prayer, and he reached out with a bony claw and stroked the mage’s cheek. The burns on A’stoc’s face vanished, replaced by the soft pink of new skin.

  “Is he all right?” Dacius asked. The human lord’s armor was splashed with blood and dented in a dozen places, but he stood perfectly erect, and his face gave no hint of fatigue.

  “He will be,” Gorin said. “But he needs much rest.”

  “Fine.” Dacius turned his head, taking a quick survey of the situation. “Drup, help Gorin and the enchantress move the wounded below, then assume a post outside the wizard’s door. No one enters without my leave. Leth, Gerruth, clear those goblins off the deck, then dismantle the barricades. Thildemar, help Captain Rone’s people with their repairs.”

  Dacius turned to Father Marcus and lowered his voice. “High Bishop, will you prepare Simon’s body? We will have to bury him at sea.”

  “Of course,” Father Marcus said, still cradling the elf’s body in his arms.

  “Thank you,” Dacius said. Then, raising his voice again: “Move, Legionnaires! I want this ship secured.”

  “Your pardon, Lord Gemine.” It was Gorin’s deep voice interrupting the Legionnaires’ motion. “When you say ‘clear those goblins off the deck’ surely you mean to prepare them for burial.”

  “What?” The shout came from Gerruth, who came lurching toward them from the bow. “Have you lost your mind? These monsters killed Simon! They deserve no honor.”

  “They are our enemies,” Gorin agreed. “They killed Simon, and you killed them. And now they are no one’s enemies. They lived their lives in ignorance of Creation’s harmony. Would you deny it to them in death as well?”

  “Yes!” Gerruth shouted. “Let them burn in Firesta. They—”

  “Enough, Gerruth,” Dacius interrupted. “Brother Gorin is right. We cannot defeat the Dark One by matching his cruelty. Prepare the goblins for burial at sea.”

  “Lord Gemine,” Gerruth pleaded, “how can you say that? Don’t you know what the goblins do to the bodies of their enemies?”

  Dacius glared at the elf, his cheeks flushing in anger until they nearly matched the fiery red of his hair. “The one who slew my father carved a hole in his cheek and ate his tongue. The one who murdered my mother removed her hair and carved foul runes into her naked skull. The one who killed Cinder took—”

  The human’s voice choked off and he turned away, shaking his head as if to clear sweat from his eyes. “You have your orders, Legionnaire.”

  The human’s pain was obvious, but so was his desire for solitude. Chentelle turned to the goblin priest. “Brother Gorin?”

  “It is true,” he answered. “Among my people, it is the custom to disfigure the bodies of our enemies. Each warrior has a unique method of mutilation, so that the clanbrothers will know who made the kill. It is thought to bring honor to the victor.”

  Chentelle shuddered.

  “I agree,” Gorin said. “It is an abominable practice, but it follows the teaching of the Heresiarchs. My people know no other way. Neither did I, before I found the Holy Land. My own ritual consisted of splitting the—”

  “Please. I would rather not know.”

  Brother Gorin bowed and moved to help Alve descend the ladder to the salon. The elf had a bandage wrapped around his newly healed eyes to protect them from the intensity of the sun.

  “Sulmar,” Chentelle said, “will you help carry A’stoc to his cabin? I want to talk to Dacius.”

  The Tengarian nodded, and Chentelle wandered back to the wheeldeck, where Dacius was in conference with Captain Rone. Thildemar came up beside her as she approached the stairs.

  “The Creator blessed us when he chose you as his messenger,” he said. “Without your Gift, we would have been lost.”

  “Thank you,” Chentelle said. “But I didn’t really do that much.”

  Thildemar smiled. “No, only what was needed, only what no one else could have done.”

  Dacius and Captain Rone stopped talking as they approached. Chentelle took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts, but Thildemar spoke first.

  “We have one more concern, Lord Gemine,” he said. “Two of the goblins are still alive.”

  “Alive?” Dacius asked.

  “Yes,” Thildemar said, motioning to two of the forms lying at the foot of the wheeldeck, “they are only unconscious. I have enough deaths on my conscience for this life.”

  Dacius looked at the elf strangely, but nodded his head. “Still, they have little value as prisoners. I doubt the Dark One has shared his plans with them. Captain, can we turn one of the cabins into a brig? I hate to spare the manpower to mount a guard, but I don’t see any other choice.”

  “Why not let them go?” Chentelle asked.

  “What?”

  “Let them go,” she said, pointing across the stern to the diminishing silhouette of the goblin warship. “Their ship isn’t going anyplace for a while. We could just put them in a longboat and let them row back to their comrades.”

  “Give them a longboat?” Rone repeated. “But we have only the two.”

  Dacius held up a hand. “No, the enchantress is right. The remaining boat will easily hold all of our company, if the need arises. Thildemar, bind them securely for now; we will release them after the funerals are complete. They should regain consciousness by then.” He nodded his head slowly, as if considering another thought, but said nothing more.

  “Dacius?” Chentelle said as Thildemar moved away. “I was wondering, you ordered a guard for A’stoc’s cabin. What are you worried about? Is there some other danger?”

  The human stroked his beard and regarded her with his clear blue eyes. “Perhaps, but I hope that I am worrying about nothing. Don’t be concerned, enchantress; the matter will be decided soon enough.”

  She did not pursue it further, though she was perplexed.

  The funeral for the goblin marines was brief and uncomplicated. Brother Gorin chanted solemnly over each body in the goblin tongue. Then he marked the corpse with the circle of Creation and Sulmar and Thildemar tossed it into the sea. Chentelle and the rest of the company stood by in respectful silence, while the two bound prisoners cackled among themselves in their own harsh language.

  After the last goblin was consigned to the waves, the company moved to the stern, where the body of Simon rested on a blanket decorated with the Great Tree of Essienkal. The elf’s uniform was immaculate: the white, purple, and gold fairly glowing in Ellistar’s light, and jet-black hair fell across his chest in two perfect braids. The Legionnaire’s vorpal sword rested in the scabbard at his left side. Simon’s face was passive, unlined, and the corners of his mouth turned upward with just the hint of a smile.

  There was something terrible in that smile, something tragic. Chentelle wondered whether her father had smiled like that, after he died.

  Dacius stepped forward and took one knee beside the body. He bowed, and slid Simon’s sword from his scabbard with practiced precision. Then he stood and saluted the body. “The Legion honors you for your service. Your sacrifice brings honor to the Legion. Your arms will be passed on to your sons and to the sons of your sons. Your valor shall be sung of and remembered. Your presence will be missed.”

  Dacius stepped away, and Father Marcus came forward. The High Bishop rested a hand on Simon’s forehead and closed his eyes in meditation. A halo of silver light formed around the priest’s head. The glow spread, slowly moving down the priest’s arm to envelop Simon’s body in a glittering aura. The aura remained even after Father Marcus opened his eyes and turned to address the company.

  “When a person dies,” he said, “his soul is welcomed back into the Unity of Creation. The Harmony of Perfection, the Unity of the Sphere, the Peace of the Whole, all of these blessings await Simon, as they await all of us. Such is the love of the Creator. Such is the gift he has given to all of the races of men.