Father Marcus looked as if he wanted to push past her, but his weakness prevented him. “You do not understand. I need to heal him. The quest cannot succeed without him.”

  “I do understand,” Chentelle said. “And I know that you blame yourself for his condition. But you didn’t have any choice. You did what you had to to save us all.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “What I did was an abomination. There is always a choice. I should have found another way. It was my weakness, my lack of foresight, that threatened the quest. But A’stoc is paying the price.” He took one shaky step forward.

  Chentelle put a hand gently on his arm, feeling the weakness that still trembled there. “You have to stop this. Please, you’re killing yourself. I know the wizard is vital to the quest, but so are you. Without your leadership, your guidance, we are all lost. Whatever mistakes you may have made were driven by the urgency of our need. Don’t abandon us now. Rest, eat some dinner. I will watch over A’stoc.”

  The High Bishop opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it and nodded in resignation. “Call me if the fever worsens.”

  “I will,” Chentelle said. “Sulmar, help him to the salon. Make sure he gets a full meal and some sleep.”

  Chentelle waited until the humans had left. Then she picked up the bowl of soup and sat down on the wizard’s bed. She poured a few drops between his slack lips and was relieved to see his throat move in a reflexive swallow. Good, at least he wouldn’t starve.

  She alternated between spooning soup slowly into A’stoc’s mouth and wiping clear the sweat that streamed down his face. When her bowl was half-empty, the perspiration stopped. That was bad. The wizard’s fever raged hotter than ever, but his body was dehydrated. She stood up to go fetch some water, but froze at A’stoc’s quiet moan.

  He was awake! No, his eyes were still shut, and he didn’t react to either her voice or her touch on his shoulder. But he was moving. His face shivered, and he tossed spasmodically on the wet sheets. She reached out with her Gift, trying to calm him.

  Fever and pain assaulted her. She swirled in a chaos of rage and fear. Fire burned from within and without. Her limbs jerked madly, wrenched in directions she was helpless to control. Her hand flew away from the wizard. She tripped and scraped her face across the rough wooden planks.

  “Sulmar!” she cried. “Come here.”

  The Tengarian burst through the door an instant later, one hand floating near the hilt of his black sword. His eyes swept the room, alert for any sign of danger. Seeing none, he crossed to Chentelle in three gliding steps. “Mistress, are you hurt?”

  “No,” she said, using his arm to pull herself upright. “I’m fine, but A’stoc’s fever is worse than ever. He’s coming back, but he needs help. Find Brother Gorin. Tell him and Father Marcus what’s happening. And get some water. He needs water.”

  “Aaahh!” A’stoc’s eyes snapped open and his body sprang from the bed. He fell to the floor in a heap, arms and legs flailing wildly.

  “Oh, no,” Chentelle said. “Help me get him back in bed.” Together, she and Sulmar raised the wizard to his feet.

  His wide eyes stared through them, seemingly oblivious to their presence. But when they tried to lead him back toward the bed, he resisted. His gaze snapped into focus on the Thunderwood Staff, resting casually in the cabin’s corner.

  “Marcus!” A’stoc exploded into motion. He pushed through Chentelle and her liegeman, catching them off guard with his sudden movement. They overbalanced against the side of the bed and fell in a tangle. The wizard snatched up the Staff and was out the door before they could recover.

  Sulmar rolled to his feet and turned a worried glance to Chentelle.

  “I’m fine,” she said, scrambling off the bed. “Go on.”

  The Tengarian ran through the door, and she followed close behind. An angry bellow rang through the hallway as they reached the salon.

  “Why?” A’stoc screamed. “What right did you have to possess me?” He stalked forward.

  Brother Gorin and Father Marcus had been alone in the salon. The goblin stepped forward to bar the wizard’s path. “Wizard A’stoc, please control yourself. We must—”

  “NO!” A’stoc slammed the Staff against the deck.

  The Treachery shuddered as Earthpower blazed into life. Gorin stumbled, driven backward by the explosion. Green fire licked at the floor and ceiling, filling the chamber with dark smoke. Sulmar tried to move forward, but the flames pushed him away.

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle yelled. “Stop it. You’re sick. You need to get back to bed.”

  The wizard jerked around at the sound of her voice. “Stay away from me, enchantress!” He snarled the title like a profanity, lips curled in anger and bitterness.

  “Wizard A’stoc,” Father Marcus said softly. “Please, release the Staff’s power. You are endangering the ship.”

  A’stoc whirled, a bestial growl rising in his throat. His left arm shot out, grabbing the High Bishop’s collar. Earthpower flared as he lifted the priest off the floor and slammed him into the bulkhead. “What right?”

  Father Marcus hung limply in the wizard’s grasp, his head bowed to the floor. “No right—only necessity, and my own weakness.”

  The wizard lifted the Thunderwood high overhead. A long, wordless scream tore from his mouth.

  “No!” screamed Chentelle. “A’stoc, don’t.”

  “Summon the sanctuary,” Gorin yelled. “High Bishop, protect yourself!”

  But Father Marcus just raised his head and locked eyes with A’stoc. He stretched out his arms, offering himself to whatever vengeance the wizard demanded.

  The Staff flared, surrounding both men in a blinding globe of emerald fire. The light pulsed once, twice, then disappeared in a burst of radiance. When vision returned, the two men were standing face-to-face, neither one showing signs of injury.

  A’stoc spun and walked away from the High Bishop. He managed three halting steps before collapsing in a heap. The Staff fell from his fingers and rolled across the deck.

  Chentelle and Sulmar were at his side an instant before the two priests. His pale skin was still hot with fever, but there was a strangely peaceful quality to his pallid face.

  A thunder of footsteps rushed down the stairs. “By the Creator,” Dacius said. “What happened?”

  “All is under control, now,” Father Marcus said. “Will you please have your people extinguish the fires. I must see to A’stoc.”

  “Father Marcus—” Gorin started.

  The High Bishop interrupted him with an upraised hand. “No, my friend. Thank you, but this is something that I must do myself. Sulmar, will you assist me?”

  The Tengarian picked up the unconscious A’stoc and followed Father Marcus back to the wizard’s cabin. Chentelle retrieved the Staff from the corner of the salon and hurried after them.

  The High Bishop motioned for Sulmar to place A’stoc in the bed. Then he took the Staff from Chentelle and laid it beside the wizard. “Thank you both for your help and concern. I believe the worst has passed. The Creator is truly merciful. Now, I must ask you to leave us alone. A’stoc and I have delicate work to do.”

  Exhaustion hung heavily on the priest’s face, but his smile was fresh and full of hope. Chentelle carried that smile with her as she returned to the salon.

  Leth, Gerruth, and Drup were splashing buckets of water on the ceiling as she arrived. The last of the flames sputtered and died out, leaving only charred wood to show where they had been. Dacius stood by an open portal, fanning with a blanket to drive out the black smoke.

  “Lord Gemine!” Zubec said, thrusting his head through the doorway at the top of the stairs. “What in Creation—?”

  “It’s a long story,” Dacius said. “Or so I gather. But everything is fine now. There’s no danger.”

  “Good,” Zubec said. “Because I think the goblin warships provide more than enough.”

  “What?”

  They stared down the line of Zubec’s arm. Far astern, barely visible in the red light, three tall-masted silhouettes poked above the horizon.

  “Are you certain?” Dacius asked, squinting against the glare.

  “There is no mistake,” Thildemar said. “Three warships, following directly on our course.”

  “All three?” Dacius said. “Blood and bone, how did they know? They didn’t even split up. We could have taken any heading back to the Realm. How are they tracking us?”

  “By the Creator, no.” All eyes turned at Gorin’s whisper. “The wailing crystal, they must be homing in on the wailing crystal.”

  “What?”

  “A fragment of the Hordemaster’s Heartstone,” he said. “Every ship carries one. It allows the navigator to fix his position relative to the Horde. They must have some way to reverse the process, to zero in on our position. It never occurred to me. I am sorry.”

  “Never mind that,” Dacius said. “Where’s the crystal?”

  “In the forepeak,” Gorin said. “I think. It might be hidden in the captain’s cabin.”

  “Search the hold,” Dacius said. “Paun, you check the captain’s quarters. Look everywhere. We need to find that crystal.” He turned to Zubec. “Can you lose them?”

  The sailor shouted some orders to his cousin and turned them across the south wind. The warships turned as a unit, matching their course and swallowing up the distance. Zubec eased them back to the northwest, squeezing all possible speed from the natural wind. The dark sails continued to close.

  “Bows!” Dacius said. “Set up positions along the stern rail! Thildemar, you and I on shield duty.”

  Chentelle watched the Legionnaires rush into action, wishing there were something she could do. Helplessly, she watched the warships glide closer. The wind shifted to the southeast, and the Treachery was forced westward. The warships adjusted course to intercept her. Lightning flashed behind them.

  “A storm,” Chentelle cried. “Look.” A wall of heavy clouds loomed in the eastern sky. Distant thunder rolled across the waves.

  “Wonderful,” Gerruth said. “Just in case the goblins weren’t enough for us to deal with.”

  “No!” Zubec said. “This is our chance. Pardec, trim the mainsail! We’re coming about. Leth, Gerruth, give him a hand. Hurry!”

  “What are you doing?” Dacius asked.

  “The storm,” Zubec said. “It’s our only chance to lose the warships. The rough water will keep them from closing to board, and the winds will force them to lower sails. If the tempest is strong enough, it may drive them away altogether.”

  “What about the Treachery? Dacius asked. “Can we survive the storm if it’s that powerful?”

  “Have you got a better idea?” Zubec asked, spinning the wheel. “Those are three fully manned warships.”

  The human lord had no answer.

  Sails luffed momentarily as the Treachery turned, then caught the wind again. They reversed direction, steering eastward on a long tack. The heading would take them into the storm’s center. It also took them back across the warships’ course.

  The goblins charged forward on their sagewind, adjusting course to cut off the whaler’s retreat. Huddled figures could be seen massing on the bows. Something splashed into the water off the starboard bow: ballistae, finding their range. A second splash was closer than the first, and the third missile sailed over their heads to splash off the port side.

  “Steady,” Dacius said. “Archers, fire only if you see a sorcerer. Otherwise, stay shielded. We can’t afford to trade shots with them.”

  Chentelle huddled against the doorway below deck. They weren’t going to make it. The warships were closing too fast. A thousand cubits, maybe less, already the lead ship was turning to match the Treachery’s course.

  “Cover!” shouted Dacius.

  A hail of arrows flew from the warship’s broadside. Most splashed into the water or clattered against the hull, but several landed across the deck. Splashes of acid hissed angrily, but no one was hit. A flaming harpoon arced over the water. It passed miraculously between the masts and crashed through the portside railing before disappearing into the sea.

  Zubec steered them northward, away from the broadside. Then, when the warship shifted to match their course, he turned them sharply east again. It was a repeat of the maneuver Captain Rone had used against the first ship, but Zubec had less sail and no sagewind to drive them. The warship’s ram cut through the water, aimed directly at the Treachery.

  Suddenly, the sails flapped weakly and hung slack. The warship was blocking their wind! The Treachery drifted slowly forward, carried only by their momentum.

  The warship shifted course, tracking their drift. The big ship flew toward them, water frothing around its pointed ram. But she was going too fast. She couldn’t turn in time to compensate for their motion. The warship slid past the Treachery’s stern, rocking the smaller boat with her wake. A handful of bolts landed against the Legionnaires’ shields, but the marines had not been prepared to fire another salvo.

  Wind filling her sails once more, the Treachery shot toward the storm.

  The other ships had been arcing out to encircle them. One was now well behind them, but the other lay directly in their path. Zubec turned them southward, closer into the wind. Two more arrow storms raked the deck, but they did damage only to Legion shields and the Treachery’s deck. The whaler cut through the warship’s wake, passing behind it before the large ship could adjust course.

  The wind picked up, driving them through the choppy surf. All three warships were in pursuit again, but the Treachery had a substantial lead. The goblins would close, of course, but already the first drops of rain were splattering against the deck.

  Zubec took them into the heart of the storm. Thunder roared around them, and hard rain drove against the deck. The Treachery pitched perilously on the turbulent sea. Lines snapped taut as the sails whipped in the gale. Water sloshed across the deck as the whaler’s bow dipped almost into the water.

  Chentelle peered over the stern rail. The warships were barely discernible through the rain. Their topsails were lowered, and they were no longer closing distance. Still, their bulk gave them greater stability than the Treachery. The goblins held to their pursuit.

  Brother Gorin came scrambling onto the deck, his right claw clutched tightly into a fist. “I have it! I found the wailing crystal. It was hidden under the floorboards of the forward hold.”

  “Give it here,” Dacius said, holding out his hand. The teardrop crystal glowed red in the Legionnaire’s palm before he closed his fingers around it. He moved to the stern rail and stared into the storm.

  “Can anyone see the warships?” he screamed. “No? Good. That means they can’t see us, either.” He hurled the wailing crystal over the rail.

  Lightning carved ribbons through the darkness, punctuating the howling wind with drumbeats of thunder. The Treachery bobbed in the water like a child’s toy, her masts straining against the wind.

  “Tie down the sails!” Zubec shouted. “She can’t take much more!”

  Pardec and the Legionnaires rushed to comply, fighting to move against the wind and the rain. Zubec started to lash the wheel into place.

  “Go below!” he yelled. “We can’t do anything more!”

  They scrambled down the stairs into the salon. Zubec came last, straining to shut the sea door against the tempest. Dacius reached up to give the elf a hand, and together they pulled the door closed.

  “Thank the Creator,” Dacius said. “With any luck, they’ll home in on the crystal and think we’re at the bottom of the sea.”

  The deck lurched under their feet as the Treachery rocked with the storm. Thunder vibrated the cabin walls, and water poured around the edges of the closed porthole.

  “With any luck,” Gerruth said, “we won’t be.”

  Chentelle’s stomach churned in rhythm to the swaying deck. Drup’s fine dinner bubbled and burned the back of her throat. She fought a wave of dizziness and gulped air through her mouth. She needed something else, anything else to think about.

  The door to A’stoc’s cabin swung open. The wizard staggered out, groping his way down the hallway. He lurched into the salon, nearly crashing into the table around which they were all huddled. He looked pale and weak, but his eyes held none of their earlier madness.

  “A’stoc, are you all right?” Chentelle asked. “Where’s Father Marcus? Here, let me help you.” She hurried around the table and grabbed his arm, helping him to sit.

  “If you want to help me,” he croaked. “Find me something to drink.” He cradled his head into his hands, clutching matted white hair between his fingers. “Hel’s Bones, this is worse than any hangover.”

  Chentelle went into the galley and dipped a mug of drinking water from one of the barrels. She returned to find A’stoc hunched over the bench, wiping a trail of liquid from his mouth.

  “By all that’s holy,” he muttered. “What does Rone think he’s doing. We can’t survive a storm like this.”

  Chentelle handed him the water. “Captain Rone died sailing us away from Kennaru. We needed to use the storm to escape the warships, and now we need to weather it as best we can.”

  “Wizard A’stoc,” Gorin said. “Where is Father Marcus?”

  “Sleeping,” A’stoc said. “I left him in my bunk. We achieved an understanding. He did what was necessary.” He took a sip from the cup without looking, and his eyes widened in surprise. He raised an eyebrow at Chentelle.

  “It’s all we have,” she protested. “The goblins took all of the wine and mead.”

  “This is fine,” he said. “I’m so dry I could swallow salt water.” He drained the mug in one long swallow. “Now, someone tell me what has happened since Father Marcus possessed me.”

  Briefly, Chentelle outlined the events since their recapture of the Treachery, pausing in her narration only to ask Sulmar to bring the wizard some more water.

  A’stoc drained the second mug as quickly as the first. His complexion was still pallid, but he seemed to be regaining strength quickly. “I see,” he said when Chentelle had finished. “And where are we headed now?”