She bolted down the stairs, taking them three at a time. The door to the cellar was ajar, and a lamp flickered from the bottom of the stairs. Muffled snoring drifted up to meet her ears. “Unbelievable,” Chentelle muttered, hurrying down the final stairs.

  The wizard lay on the floor, curled around the Thunderwood Staff. The smell of wine filled the room, and an empty jug lay propped against the wall. “A’stoc!” she shouted. “Get up! Goblins are attacking.”

  “Wha—?” The wizard rolled to his feet, groaning loudly. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Aah! That was a mistake.”

  “A’stoc, hurry,” Chentelle pleaded. “The goblins are almost here. They need your help.”

  “Goblins?” A’stoc said. “And they attack the village?” He raised the Staff and shook it wildly in the air. “I shall smite them with the legacy of Boemarre!”

  “What?” said Chentelle. “But they’re living creatures. The power would backfire on us.”

  “I know that!” he snorted disgustedly. “But I thought perhaps the villagers would appreciate the irony.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

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

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle reached up and grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. “We don’t have time for this. The Legionnaires need your help now.”

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

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

  A’stoc slammed shut the viewport. “Open the gate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Fire!” Dacius shouted.

  Chaos erupted. Legion arrows filled the air, dropping several goblins before they could react. The rest scattered, darting through the buildings to avoid the barrage. The chieftain planted a foot on Gorin’s chest and shoved, ripping his lance free in a great fountain of blood.

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

  The wizard screamed wildly and charged into the square.

  Chentelle froze. This was insane. A goblin charged toward her, twirling a sling above his head. An arrow caught him in the side, and he fell from his bird. Something smacked into the door just above Chentelle’s head, and she jumped backward. One of the villagers slammed the door shut and dropped the bar. She was safe.

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

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

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

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

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

  Chentelle scrambled around the fallen bodies.

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

  A strong hand grabbed her hair, yanking her backward. Gerruth stepped forward, sword raised. The goblin hesitated, and the vorpal blade slashed out. The goblin’s head rolled off shoulders, connected to the body by only a thin strip of flesh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Slowly, the glow became stronger, steadier. It pulsed with life, driving back the currents of pain. It spread through Gorin’s body, through his soul. And where it passed, it left a calm surface of perfect peace and calmness. Pain disappeared; wounds stopped bleeding. Chentelle felt the priest slide into sanctuary, and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Thildemar. All’s well.”

  “Gerruth. All’s well. But my brother—”

  “Leth. Injured, it’s only a scratch.”

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

  “…All’s well.”

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

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

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

  Marcus moved on to examine Leth’s wound.

  “Hurry,” Gerruth said. “He’s losing too much blood!”

  “Help me remove his corselet,” Marcus said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Wait,” Sulmar said. “My mistress is injured.”

  “Chentelle? Let me see.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Chentelle protested.

  “Please,” the High Bishop said, “not you, too. Why must everyone equate suffering with virtue. The Creator does not wish us to endure pain. He wishes us to cure it.” He placed a hand over Chentelle’s wound.

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

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

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

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

  “Father Marcus!” Dacius’ voice brought them to a halt. “We have a problem.” He nodded to Thildemar.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your pardon, Lord Gemine,” said Thildemar, “but I cannot.”

  “What?” said Dacius.

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

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

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

  “Ex-excuse me. Thildemar,” Chentelle said. “Why don’t you take one of the birds?”

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

  “But it would make the trip faster, wouldn’t it?”

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

  “Let me try,” Chentelle said.

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

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

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

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

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

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