His hands trembled on her arms. She felt herself start to rise as the Tengarian lifted her to carry her to safety. Then, he let her go. He let her pass. Then he fell in beside her, his face was locked in a mask of iron determination.

  “What are you doing?” Dacius shouted. “You’ll be killed!”

  Chentelle ran for the heart of the storm. Earthpower blazed all around her, scorching the air and crashing in her ears. But it left her untouched. She squinted against the brilliance, searching for A’stoc. There he was, a shadow inside the radiant fury. She took Sulmar’s arm and led him through the magic. Dust billowed around their feet, dry, lifeless, empty of Earthpower. They sank deeper into the ash with each step. By the time they neared the wizard, it reached nearly to Chentelle’s knees.

  A’stoc towered above them, held up by the Staff’s power. His body shook with strain, and tears mingled with sweat on his face. His mouth moved. The words were swallowed up in the howl of Earthpower, but the pleading in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Chentelle shook her head. She would not run. She took Sulmar’s hand in hers. Then she stepped forward, holding her other hand out to A’stoc.

  The wizard’s eyes squeezed tightly closed. His mouth contorted in a soundless scream, and he fell to his knees. The Thunderwood Staff drove into the ground, imbedded in the dust. The holocaust exploded outward in a sphere of destruction. It swept through air and stone alike, reducing everything in its path to lifeless cinders.

  Chentelle and Sulmar existed in a pocket of stillness, a bubble of peace in an ocean of rage. They watched in horror as the wave of annihilation swelled outward. The cavern floor, the stalagmites, even the roiling magma of the breeding pit, flashed into dust. The desolation spread, irresistible, unstoppable. It surged through the chamber, catching Dacius at the foot of the stairs.

  The Legion commander had no chance. The devastation was driven forward by a hurricane of power. He barely had time to scream before the wave hit.

  Only it never reached him. The desecration froze, locked in stasis. Then it collapsed in on itself. A sharp crack of thunder resounded through the cave as the power imploded, absorbed back into the Thunderwood.

  A’stoc’s scream sounded raw and weak in the sudden silence that followed. The wizard’s eyes rolled backward into white, and he dropped face first into the dust. The flames surrounding him disappeared. The darkness was absolute.

  Chentelle pushed herself forward through the shifting ash. “Sulmar, help me!” Her searching hands found the wizard’s body. It was impossible to find good purchase in the loose powder, but somehow she managed to pull him to the surface.

  Light flickered behind her. Sulmar blew softly on the torch, nursing the flame. She had no idea when he had picked it up, nor did she care. She was just grateful for the light. She waved the Tengarian closer and bent down to examine A’stoc. He was not breathing.

  Chentelle reached into him with her Gift. He was cold inside, gray and empty. A tiny ember of life burned deep in his spirit, but it was surrounded by walls of numbness. She fanned the ember with her song, trying to build its strength. But the numbness resisted her, blocking much of her magic. The flame pulsed only a fraction more brightly than before.

  She focused on his heart, willing it to beat with the measure of her own heart. Reluctantly, it did. She breathed, willing her breath to be his, infused by her Gift. The wizard started to breathe, but the breaths were weak and rasping. She had made his body function, but not well enough to endure long.

  Chentelle pried the Staff from his stiffened fingers. The wood throbbed warmly in her hand. She shuddered, remembering the nightmare she had shared in A’stoc’s mind. “We have to get him to Father Marcus.”

  Sulmar handed her the torch. Then, he lifted the wizard and threw him across his shoulders. The extra weight pressed him downward, and he sank nearly to his hips in the fine dust. He turned back to the stairs and drove himself through the ash with powerful strides.

  Dacius stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes and mouth hanging open. “By all that’s holy,” he muttered as they approached. “I have seen death before. I’ve seen the destruction of war. But I never—I—”

  Rock shifted loudly somewhere above them, and the human lord’s eyes snapped back into focus. “We’d better move. These walls could give out any moment.” He motioned them to the stairs, taking the rear position for himself.

  They emerged into a huddle of concerned faces. “What has happened?” Father Marcus asked.

  “Later,” Chentelle gasped. “A’stoc is hurt.” She motioned, and Sulmar set the wizard on the ground.

  The High Bishop knelt. He handed the Sphere of Ohnn to Brother Gorin and examined the mage. He started chanting almost immediately, summoning the power to heal. He continued for a minute or more, then stopped.

  Father Marcus rose to his feet, shaking his head. “There is little I can do for him. He has no wounds, but his essence is spent. I can provide him comfort and easy rest, but his recovery depends upon his will to live.”

  “Can he travel?” Dacius asked.

  Father Marcus nodded. “His body is not damaged. It should not harm him to be carried.”

  “All right, then,” the Legion commander said. “Thildemar, take the point: twenty-cubit lead, but no more than two intersections. Don’t take chances. We know the goblins are close.” He bent down to pick up A’stoc.

  Sulmar waved him away. “I will carry the wizard.”

  Dacius shrugged. “Leth, Gerruth, you’re with me. Drup, you have the rear. Stay sharp.” He led them down the passage, following the route that Thildemar had taken a few moments before.

  They wound their way through the tunnels. Every intersection meant an anxious delay while Thildemar scouted for a possible exit. Several times they had to double back as a promising passage terminated in a dead end or a barred door. Tension built with each false turn. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

  Thildemar rounded a turn in the narrow hallway. He immediately reappeared, backing cautiously toward them.

  They froze. Callused hands moved to their swords, but they did not draw. The crackling torch in Chentelle’s hand sounded huge in the silence.

  When Thildemar reached their position, he pointed backward. The whole party retreated down the tunnel, stopping only after they had retraced several turns.

  “That was the exit,” Thildemar whispered. “I could smell the open air. But it is guarded by at least two score goblins, two score very nervous goblins.”

  “Crossbows?” Dacius asked.

  “Many.”

  Dacius ran his eyes across the company. “We cannot fight our way through them. We must find another exit.”

  “But there is no other exit,” Kelmek protested. “The stairs to the catacombs are buried. The goblin tunnels are the only other way.”

  “Perhaps not.” All eyes turned at Brother Gorin’s gruff voice. “Follow me.”

  They backtracked through several passageways. Then the goblin led them down a short side tunnel. The hallway ended at the closed wooden door with a goblin rune carved into it. Gorin listened at the door, then pushed it open. Foul odors swept into the hall.

  “A sewer?” Gerruth asked. “You want us to crawl into a cesspool?”

  Gorin pointed to a small iron grate. “The water moves. That means it connects to an underground stream. That is the standard practice, where a natural water flow is available.”

  Dacius pried up the grate and examined the hole. His nose wrinkled in disgust, and his eyes watered uncontrollably. He backed away, shaking his head. He reached over his shoulder and pulled a field bandage out of his pack, locating it by feel with no apparent trouble. He tied the cloth around his mouth and nose, forming a makeshift mask. “Hand me that torch.”

  The human lowered himself into the dark hole. After a few moments, he stuck his head back out. “It’s cramped but manageable. Come on down. However, I strongly suggest you cover your noses.”

  They needed no special urging. Cloths masking their faces, they crawled into the sewer. The tunnel was small, perhaps three cubits in diameter, and they were forced to lurch forward in an awkward crouch. The humans had it worst of all, especially Sulmar, who had the additional burden of carrying A’stoc. Making matters worse, the bent-over posture brought their faces closer to the reeking sewage that trickled around their feet.

  Only Brother Gorin seemed unbothered by the drains. The goblin was small enough to walk upright, and he was the only one among them not to wear a mask.

  “How do you stand it?” Gerruth asked the goblin. “I know that your nose is even keener than mine.”

  Gorin cocked his head and regarded the Legionnaire. “The smell is strong, but I do not find it particularly offensive. It is no worse than the scent of pine or incense or human blood.”

  Chentelle’s stomach wrenched violently. Only the fact that it was empty saved her from vomiting. It seemed as though days had passed since they entered Hel’s Crown. She was exhausted. Her head throbbed, and her legs ached from all of the climbing and running and crouching. By the Creator, how terrible it must be for Sulmar!

  Brackish water pooled and eddied on the uneven floor, and the slick excrement made their footing treacherous. They passed several small branching tunnels, most of which drained additional putrescence onto their ankles. After what seemed hours of hunched walking, they found where the tunnel drained into a wide underground stream. The natural channel carved by the water was wider, but no higher, than the goblin sewer. Fortunately, the flow of clean water eased the stench considerably.

  Dacius stopped when he hit the stream and looked over the company. “Upstream,” he said, heading that direction. After a dozen cubits or so of sloshing against the current he stopped again. “We’ll rest here. Split up whatever rations are salvageable. Sleep if you can. We need to be sharp when we hit the surface. There’s no telling what may be waiting for us.”

  Chentelle sank gratefully against the wall. The water was cold but clean. It felt glorious on her skin. She bent over and took a long drink, reveling in the clear taste. Her stomach rumbled, reminded now that it had been long empty.

  Sulmar propped A’stoc carefully against the wall and slid into the water beside her. For the first time since his recovery in the Holy Land, the Tengarian showed obvious signs of fatigue. His breath came in harsh gasps, and his movements were slow, almost awkward. He cupped water in his hands and splashed it against his face.

  Most of the rations were spoiled, but Father Marcus and Gorin had both managed to keep their packs dry and clean. They passed their hard breads and fruit through the company, allowing each member to eat or not as his stomach dictated.

  Despite her hunger, Chentelle found that she could not eat. The first bite she tried to swallow lodged in her throat with the miasma of the sewers. She gagged, regurgitating the water she had just swallowed. Suddenly embarrassed, she handed the bread to Sulmar.

  The Tengarian ripped a large chunk from the loaf and passed the remainder on. He ate several bites, chewing and swallowing without trouble. When Chentelle had recovered from her spasms, he handed her the rest of his share. “Take small bites and hold them in your mouth,” he said quietly. “Do not try to swallow. Let them dissolve in your saliva.”

  Chentelle took the offered food. “Thank you, Sulmar.” She tore off a small piece and placed it tentatively in her mouth. It worked. Another bite followed as soon as the first disappeared. As her stomach filled, her fatigue became irresistible. By the time she finished the bread, her eyes were barely open. She fell into sleep almost immediately.

  The dream came an hour later.

  Thunder is everywhere. It washes over her, tossing her about like a leaf in the storm. She screams, but can’t hear her own voice over the roar.

  It is cold. She shivers uncontrollably. She tries to wrap her arm around her body, but some other force is moving her limbs. It shakes them wildly, twisting them into unnatural angles.

  Everything is dark. She can’t see. She can’t feel. She’s floating in something—water. But she floats under the surface. She can’t breathe! She swims for the surface, but there is no surface. Walls appear all around her. She’s trapped! Her lungs burn with the need for air. But there is no air. The darkness becomes somehow blacker. She can’t breathe! She can’t breathe! She can’t—

  “Aaaahh!” Chentelle’s eyes snapped open. She gulped air desperately into her lungs. A dream—it had been a dream.

  “Mistress!” A whisper of steel told her that Sulmar had drawn his weapon.

  “I’m okay,” she said between gasps. “I’m okay. It was a dream. It was—” She sat up straight. “Dacius! Father Marcus! We have to move. Hurry, we have to get out of the tunnels.”

  No one argued with the urgency in her voice. In seconds the party was on its way, slouching downstream to the opening they hoped would be there, the opening that had to be there. Water swirled around their legs. It wasn’t long before they realized that the level was climbing. A deep rumbling sounded from somewhere above.

  “Holy Creator,” Dacius said. “The storm clouds! I’m a fool. How could I have forgotten?”

  Desperation drove their pace. Their world became a contest between a distant roar and the rhythm of their steps. The roar grew steadily louder, and their steps grew more difficult. The water fought them: it was too shallow to carry them, but too deep to stride above. They were not going to make it.

  “Squat down!” Dacius shouted over the roar. “Cover your heads with your arms. Take deep breaths, starting now. After the initial rush, try to follow the current. Look for air pockets near the ceiling, but only after the first wave has passed. BRACE YOURSELVES!”

  Chentelle wrapped herself around the Staff, clinging to it as tightly as she was able. A wall slammed into her back, nearly driving the precious air from her lungs. Water lifted her and spun her about wildly. Things bumped against her in the stream: arms, legs, others she couldn’t identify. She couldn’t hold her tuck; the current was too strong. One arm flailed out, scraping against rock. Pain flared in her wrist and elbow. She squeezed the other arm even more tightly around the Staff.

  “Uhhnn!” Her head screamed at the sudden impact. Dizziness washed over her. She latched on to the pain in her arm, using the sting to keep herself conscious. Only after her head cleared did she realize that she had let out her breath.

  She needed air. The water pulled her forward, but the current was slowing. Air pockets—that’s what Dacius had said. But which direction was up? She was completely disoriented. The Staff! She tucked the Staff into her legs and surrounded it with a loose circle of her arms. She let go with her legs and the Staff bumped against one of her arms. Okay, that direction should be up. She grabbed the Staff with her good hand and stretched out the other one to scrape the ceiling.

  Chentelle let the current move her, kicking only gently with her legs. She had to conserve the little air she had left. Already her lungs burned with the desperate need to breathe. That was panic. Don’t panic. Stay calm. She was a strong swimmer. She had been underwater longer than this before. She concentrated on her fingers, letting them trace the outlines of the ceiling. The rough surface actually helped; it made her hands more sensitive.

  She had a horrible thought—what if the Thunderwood was heavier than water? She could be following the wrong surface. No—that was fear talking. She had to trust her instincts. All she had to do was relax, wait until—yes. Her hand felt air.

  She stopped her motion. The current was still strong, but she could resist it. The air pocket was thin, barely the depth of her hand, but it was enough. She pressed her face to the roof and sucked greedily at the fresh oxygen. After a few breaths, she noticed the air getting stale. That was all right. She inhaled one more time and ducked back under the water.

  She swam with the current. Kicking herself forward with powerful strokes but keeping her hands in front of her to ward off impacts. She heard a rushing sound from ahead. Good, that meant the water had found an outlet. If her luck held, it would be wide enough to let her escape, too. A pinprick of light appeared ahead. She clutched the Staff and kicked toward the tiny glow.

  Chentelle burst through the hole and found herself in midair. She tumbled down in a stream of water and landed in a shallow pool. Sputtering for breath, she stood up. The water came only to her waist; she was lucky the fall had been brief.

  It was dark. The red globe of Deneob was barely visible behind the wall of black clouds that dominated the sky. Warm rain slapped against Chentelle’s skin, driven by a hard wind. A long bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, and she decided to get out of the water.

  “Enchantress, over here.”

  She headed for the sound of Thildemar’s voice. It led her to a small cave, just downstream of the waterfall. Thildemar waved her inside. Several figures huddled together in the center of the grotto, taking shelter from the storm. Father Marcus and Gorin were there, as were Kelmek and the other Legionnaires. Only Sulmar and A’stoc were missing. A heap of supplies rested against the far wall.

  “Enchantress,” the High Bishop said, squinting to see her in the dim light. “And you have the Staff. Bless the Creator for sending you to us. Are you well? Do you need healing?”

  Did she? She took a quick inventory. Blood ran freely from a shallow gash on her right elbow. Her head throbbed, but a quick check failed to yield evidence of blood. She was scraped and bruised in a dozen places and generally beaten up. Otherwise, she was fine. “Nothing serious. Where’s Sulmar?”

  “He has not yet appeared, Chentelle,” the priest answered. “It may have taken him longer because of A’stoc.”

  As if on cue, there was a loud splash. Chentelle dropped the Staff and ran back to the pool.

  Sulmar stood in the water. His left arm hung limply by his side, and he struggled to hold A’stoc’s head and shoulders out of the water using only his right.