“But it won’t help us,” Chentelle said. “It just wants to be left alone with its—” Chentelle smiled. “Father Marcus, drop your sanctuary. I have an idea.”

  “If you are sure—”

  “I can’t be sure. But I think this will work. This spirit reminds me of A’stoc.”

  He nodded, almost smiling. The sanctuary faded.

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

  “Stop it. Will I never know peace again?”

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

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

  “That’s because you haven’t dealt with the third element,” Chentelle said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Interesting, I would never have bel…”

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

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

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. And look, we found it.”

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

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

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

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

  “Throm!” Dacius growled.

  12

  Escape

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

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

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

  Sulmar’s contact had lifted Chentelle’s paralysis. She still felt the fear, but now she could move. A quick look told her that everyone else was still affected. Kelmek was huddled against the rocks, curled into a ball of terror. Father Marcus and Gorin seemed frozen in the middle of prayer. The goblin’s face was knotted with concentration, and sweat beaded on his face. But the High Bishop looked calm, almost serene. The Legionnaires stood like statues, blank-eyed, inert. Only Dacius still moved.

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

  SUCH HATRED YOU HOLD. YOU WILL MAKE A FINE SERVANT. BUT WHAT IS THIS? I SEE YOU HARBOR ONE WHO IS ALREADY MY SERVANT. COME HERE, LITTLE TRAITOR. COME TO YOUR MASTER.

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

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

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

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

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

  NO MATTER. I WILL HAVE HIM SOON ENOUGH, AS I WILL HAVE THE SPHERE OF OHNN. AH, YOU ARE SURPRISED. YES, I KNOW THE OBJECT OF YOUR QUEST. IT WAS CHILD’S PLAY TO PULL IT FROM THE MINDS OF YOUR FRIENDS. I ALLOWED YOU TO REACH THE ATABLICRYON ONLY SO THAT YOU COULD RETRIEVE THE SPHERE. NOW, GIVE IT TO ME!

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

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

  “Rrrraaahhhh!” Dacius’ sword flashed free of its sheath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  AH, BOEMARRE’S APPRENTICE. TELL ME, LITTLE APPRENTICE, HAVE YOU COME TO REPEAT YOUR MASTER’S FOLLY? I SENSE THAT YOU HAVE LITTLE CONTROL OVER THE THUNDERWOOD. THE POWER WEIGHS HEAVILY ON YOUR FRAGILE SPIRIT. PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO LIFT THE BURDEN FROM YOU.

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

  The Ill-creature hissed malevolently. Saliva bubbled at its lips and dripped to the stone floor. PERHAPS. BUT WHEN I WIELD BOTH TALISMANS OF POWER, WHO CAN SAY HOW FAR MY MIGHT WILL REACH? SURRENDER THE STAFF, LITTLE MORTAL. I WILL MAKE YOUR DEATH EASIER THAN YOUR MASTER’S.

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

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

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

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle ran forward to help the wizard.

  The cavern erupted in violence.

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

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

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

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

  FOOLS. YOU CANNOT STAND AGAINST ME.

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

  HA HA HA HA. YOU ARE SO WEAK, LITTLE WIZARDLING. HOW CAN YOU HOPE TO CONTROL WHAT YOUR MASTER UNLEASHED?

  The Staff! She had to hang on to the Staff. The wood throbbed in her hand. It bucked. Throm was right. It was too strong. The Earthpower wanted to be released, demanded to be released. Flame burst from the Thunderwood. It enfolded her, embraced her, stroked her with a lover’s fiery touch. ‘You can be strong,’ it whispered. ‘I can make you strong. Nothing will ever hurt you again.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  LET GO. GIVE ME THE STAFF.

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

  “No!” A’stoc slammed the Staff against the floor. Earthpower blazed around him in a protective aura.

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

  Throm charged at the wizard, swallowing the distance between them in a single powerful stride. THEN DIE, LITTLE WIZARD. DIE AND KNOW THAT I WILL DESTROY ALL THAT YOU HOLD DEAR. The Ill-creature reached out, seizing the Staff in hideous claws. Green flames swept through Throm’s body, but they did not consume him. The power yielded to his will, shifting color until it surrounded him in a shield of yellow flame.

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

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

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

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

  A’stoc wrenched to the side. The heel of the Staff touched the floor, and the stones exploded. The blast hurled both combatants into the air, still locked together by the Earthpower. They flew in the direction A’stoc had pulled, covering perhaps twelve cubits in the air and landing in the jagged rift that had been the breeding pit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  They ran. The Earthpower ballooned outward, keeping them pressed close to the walls. The floor bucked and shifted under their feet. Ribbons of energy flashed through the chamber, cutting dark swaths of destruction. The earth shifted and groaned in protest, unable to endure the sustained abuse. Thunder rolled in their ears as part of the ceiling collapsed, burying half of the cavern. The stairway disappeared under a mountain of debris.

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

  Chentelle stopped running.

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

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

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

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