“No, but he was,” Alka said. “He was my commander during the Wizards’ War. He resigned his commission after the Desecration.”

  Dacius’s mind reeled. To him, the Wizards’ War was military history, a battle fought generations ago by men like his grandfather. But Alka and Thildemar were there, witness to the greatest conflict in recorded history.

  “Thildemar was at the final battle?” Dacius asked, still finding this hard to credit.

  “No, Dacius. No one who went to that final battle returned alive. Your grandfather and I survived because our wounds kept us away from the front; Thildemar survived because of his dreams. In the weeks before the battle, he suffered from terrible visions. They robbed him of sleep, threatened his sanity. Finally, he was forced to remove himself from command. He sent his troops to final confrontation while he returned to Essienkal.”

  In such a case, there could be those to whom the word “cowardice” occurred. But Dacius remained silent.

  “It is said that time heals all wounds, Dacius, but elven memory is long. I lost a brother on that day, whose image haunts me still. Thildemar lost every man in his regiment. On that day, he swore that never again would he order a man to his death.”

  Dacius had heard stories of the Desecration Fault, of the vast wasteland which marked the spot of A’pon Boemarre’s confrontation with the Dark One. He tried to imagine the guilt of sending good men into such a slaughter. No wonder the elf’s songs were grim.

  “What kind of threat,” Dacius asked, “could inspire him to take up arms again?”

  “The gravest. Ill-creatures have been spotted in the Realm. It is rumored the Dark One has returned.”

  “The Dark One!” Dacius experienced an ugly chill. “He survived the Desecration?”

  Then realization came as he looked at the sword hanging at Alka’s side. “The weapons—you are collecting men who possess vorpal weapons.”

  “Very intuitive, my young friend,” Alka said. “With us on this ship are fourteen of the finest elven Legionnaires living, each armed with a vorpal sword. We are under orders to serve and protect the High Bishop of Norivika in whatever manner he requires.”

  The High Bishop. Not since the Wizards’ War had he called upon the Legion’s protection. He did not need to; the power of the Holy Land kept him safe. This could only mean that the High Bishop meant to leave Talan.

  Dacius opened his sea chest and pulled out his grandfather’s sword. His jaw tightened as he strapped the harness around his waist. He was beginning to understand his friend’s caution.

  The Otan Stin struggled northward in faint winds for three days. Whenever the wind died altogether, Vagen would summon the sagewind to fill the sails. But the effort tired him quickly. Slowly, the ship made its way up the coast.

  Dacius stood at the portside railing, watching the white foam wash against the distant shoreline. Sometime in the night they had passed the jagged mountain range that formed the boundary between Odenal and the desert plains of Larama. Now Dacius searched that bleak coast for the next landmark which would indicate their progress—the port city of Atbok.

  Dacius was eager to reach Norivika. The tales of the Holy City were fantastic. It was said to be a paradise in which no evil could exist, a center of worship which radiated peace and turned the land of Talan into haven for all peoples. The capital of a country which had no government and no army, a country whose citizens were devoted to the arts of healing and meditation. Dacius found himself eager to experience the truth of the Holy City for himself.

  An angry shout called Dacius’s attention to the wheeldeck. Captain Rone was screaming at Alka over the carved stone pieces of a castle game.

  “Damn it all,” he yelled. “I have never met a man who can win so many damned games in a row.”

  Dacius smiled. Alka played at the King’s Court in Essienkal, and he had not lost a game of castle outside of that elven city for more years than Dacius had been alive. Rone grumbled some more, but he was already setting up the pieces for another game.

  Some sailors called for music, and Dacius heard the answer of Thildemar’s lute coming from the stern. Dacius turned back to the rail, idly listening to songs of love and courage and the deep longings that drive men’s souls.

  As evening approached, the lookout cried, “Atbok, ahead to port.”

  Dacius looked, but the city was still too distant for human eyes to see. To the south, though, he could see dark clouds forming above the horizon. He headed back to the wheeldeck.

  The wind picked up, and Captain Rone shouted for all sails. The Otan Stin ran with the wind, making good speed at last. But lightning flashed to the south and the seas were becoming rough.

  Captain Rone squinted into the wind. “This is a good omen, as well as bad. The storm has brought us much needed wind, but I cannot say how long it will remain at our backs. This is a rare storm, to blow up so quickly this late in the season.”

  “Atbok fast approaching,” cried the lookout.

  “And now I must decide,” said Rone, “whether to draw her in to dock or to try and outrun the storm. Which do you favor, Lord Shara?”

  Alka rose an eyebrow. “I am no seaman, Captain, but I would always consider safety as a first priority.”

  “Indeed,” the captain agreed. “But which path leads to safety? The storm won’t stop before it hits Atbok, that much is obvious, but how far north will it reach? We are better off riding the edge of a storm in open water than suffering the brunt of one tied to a dock. And you tell me your mission is one of great urgency. Who knows how long we would be delayed in Larama? And of course there are docking fees to consider, and cargo taxes.”

  “You need not worry yourself about fees, Captain,” Alka said. “Your vessel is chartered and we are your only cargo. The expense of your trip has already been well covered.”

  “That it has, Lord Shara,” Rone said. “So the question lies entirely in the behavior of the storm, I have sailed these waters countless times, and I have never seen a storm blow into the Quiet Sea this time of year. We run.”

  “I can only be assured by your words,” Alka said.

  Dacius nodded, trying to ignore the persistent rumble of thunder. He could only hope that Captain Rone’s experience proved true.

  The Otan Stin sped northward, leaving Atbok far behind. But the storm continued to advance upon them. By the time Ellistar set in the west, dark clouds had completely surrounded them.

  The wind whipped the sea into a frenzy, and driving rain weighed down their sails. Lightning flashes struck the blackened ocean all around them, and the roar of thunder was constant. The Otan Stin pitched in the waves as if it were the plaything of an angry child. Captain Rone ordered all passengers secure belowdecks.

  Dacius’ hammock swung wildly with the ship’s rocking. He tried to rest, but he was afraid he would be thrown to the floor if he slept.

  “It would seem Rone’s judgment of the weather was incorrect,” he remarked, half hoping to be refuted.

  “I fear this storm may be more than Rone can manage,” Alka said. “But there is little we can do, now. I suggest we sleep while we are able.”

  “Sure,” Dacius said, though he was anything but certain that he could sleep. In fact, the constant rolling was making him nauseated. Luckily, he had not eaten anything since early that afternoon. He forced his hands to release their grip on the hammock. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, willing himself to relax.

  Suddenly the cabin seemed to turn on its side. The lantern hanging from the ceiling flew against the wall and went out. Dacius tumbled from his hammock. His sense of direction was distorted, but he seemed to hit the wall of the cabin first and then slide to the floor.

  “Dacius,” Alka called, “are you all right?”

  “Yes, but confused,” he replied. Then strong fingers wrapped around Dacius’ arms and helped him to his feet. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Alka said, above the howling of the wind. “But surely the storm is worse.”

  Dacius heard faint cries and the pounding footfalls of men running on the deck above their heads. Then the door flew open and dim light filtered in. A young Legionnaire stuck his head through the opening.

  “Lord Shara,” he said. “We are under attack!”

  There was a flash as Alka used his elven Lore to relight the lantern. He grabbed his sword belt and handed the lamp to Dacius. “Follow me,” he said, racing out the cabin door.

  Dacius paused only long enough to secure his own blade, but when he reached the corridor Alka and the other Legionnaire were already gone. He ran for the nearest ladder and climbed to the main deck.

  As soon as he threw open the hatch, the storm assaulted him. Rain blasted his face, and the wind threatened to tear him from the ladder. His lantern died immediately, and he dropped it to the deck.

  Dacius pulled himself onto secure footing, crouching low against the gale. He heard men shouting, but the wind made it impossible to determine the direction from which the sound came. He searched the darkness and spotted a flash of blue light coming from the prow. He headed in that direction.

  As he came nearer, he saw several patches of dim blue radiance, each one centered around a sword. The vorpal swords, he realized. They were giving off light as the elves wielded them in battle. But what were they fighting?

  A flash of lightning gave him the answer.

  A huge black form crouched near the foremast. Its legs were bent backward like a bird’s and ended in immense three-clawed talons. The body was manlike, though twice the size of any man Dacius had seen, and great bat wings spread behind it, anchored to immensely muscled shoulders. Set deeply in the brow of a huge hyena head, the monster’s eyes glowed with the pale yellow of an infected wound. This was no natural animal; it was an Ill-creature, a twisted servant of the Dark One.

  Dacius’ eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. He struggled to make out a handful of sailors and Legionnaires. They surrounded the creature but seemed unwilling to close. He saw that several bodies already cluttered the deck around the monster’s feet, evidence of what happened to those who closed too quickly.

  The beast rose to its full height and threw its head back, showing wickedly curved fangs. It lashed out, striking the foremast with one massive arm. Wood shattered as the pole tore loose from its support. Elves scrambled out of the way as mast and sail crashed to the deck.

  By the Creator, the beast meant to destroy the Otan Stin! Dacius froze, unable to move. The sound of the storm filled his ears, but mocking laughter echoed inside his skull. It was hopeless. No man could fight against such power. How could flesh and blood stand where stout wood had fallen? The Ill-creature would strike them down as easily as it had severed the mast.

  Captain Rone leaped forward, lashing out at the Ill-creature with his cutlass. He landed heavy blows on the monster’s legs and chest, but he might as well have been striking a stone statue. The blade bounced ineffectually off the beast’s skin.

  The Ill-creature struck out with a wing, lifting the captain from the deck and tossing him contemptuously into the sea.

  But the captain’s charge had broken the paralysis. Dacius drew his sword. He was a knight, a Legionnaire; he would not give in to fear.

  The vorpal blade radiated with fierce blue light. The pommel was warm in his hand, and Dacius felt a surge of power and clarity. The rage of the storm, the chaos of battle, the incapacitating fear, they all seemed distant now.

  The crew of the Otan Stin had rushed forward to avenge their captain, but their weapons were useless against the Ill-creature’s magic. As the sailors fell back in futility, Dacius could see a lone figure protecting their retreat, balking the monster’s counterattack with a wall of brightly glowing steel. There could be no doubt about the identity of that one. But one was enough only to foil the monster, not to slay it. Calmly, Dacius moved forward to Alka’s aid.

  The Ill-creature hesitated for a moment, backing away from the vorpal swords. One taloned leg slid forward, kicking a crumpled shape into the light of their weapons. It was the young Legionnaire who had come to their cabin, the vorpal blade still clutched uselessly in his hand. The beast moved forward, driving a clawed foot easily through the fallen elf’s body as it advanced.

  YOUR WEAPONS WILL NOT SAVE YOU, MORTALS. I WILL KILL YOU ALL AS EASILY AS I KILLED THIS FOOL.

  The voice thundered inside Dacius’ head, threatening to swamp his mind in terror. But this time he cast off the beast’s influence. Because he knew it was the beast, and not his own cowardice. And that his weapon could hurt the thing. That was why it was so eager to make him believe otherwise.

  Alka Shara shouted defiantly at his side. “I have felt your kind before, Ill-creature! Your powers do not deceive me. Go back to the pits of Firesta—go back to your master. Your powers are nothing, here! Leave before I send your foul soul back to the Abyss.”

  ARROGANT FOOL, I WILL TEACH YOU ABOUT POWER. The Ill-creature raised a hand and pointed at Alka. Lightning danced around its claws and then shot forward, driving the elf backward.

  Dacius screamed and jumped forward. His vorpal sword came down on the outstretched arm, cutting it to the core and ending the lightning barrage. Armed with this blade, he could bring his fencing skill into play. Nothing but an opposing weapon could prevent him from scoring. He feinted, making the creature react, drawing it into vulnerability. Then a second, lesser stroke sliced into the monster’s belly. Blue tracers of light were left in the wounds, as if fire bled into them. Dacius leaped sideways, avoiding the beast’s vicious counterstroke.

  The monster’s rage pounded against his mind. It advanced swiftly, trying to overwhelm his defense. Huge claws struck again and again, and his parries became more and more desperate. This thing did know how to fight when vulnerable; there was a calculating quality to the mental barrage. There was little room to maneuver, and the rocking of the ship’s deck made footing treacherous. Dacius counterattacked cautiously, seeking an opening to attack the Ill-creature’s chest or neck. But the opening never came.

  The ship lurched violently, throwing Dacius to the deck.

  The Ill-creature was also caught off guard, but huge beats of its wings kept it from falling. Hissing triumphantly, it lunged forward.

  Dacius brought his weapon up—too late. A monstrous claw closed around his wrist like a shackle. Bones snapped, and the vorpal sword fell from limp fingers. He was lifted off the ground and dangled helplessly before the creature’s face. The huge jaws opened and a long, snakelike tongue darted against Dacius’ face.

  The stench was unbelievable. Dacius struck out with his free hand, groping for one of the hideously glowing eyes. But the Ill-creature deflected the attack, snapping at his fingers with needlelike fangs.

  YOUR DEATH IS JUST THE BEGINNING, LITTLE MORTAL. SOON, ALL OF INFINITERA SHALL BOW BEFORE THE DARK ONE.

  Suddenly, a shaft of blue light erupted from the monster’s shoulder.

  Dacius fell to the deck, struggling to remain conscious. Pain shot through his arm. He looked down and saw a jagged edge of white pushing through the flesh of his wrist. Pain was good; it helped him fight off the dizziness. Where was his sword? There, a flash of blue against the deck. He scrambled forward, grabbing the weapon with his left hand.

  Strength flowed into him from the blade. Pain receded. The world stopped spinning. Good; now he had to gauge the situation, plan a reaction.

  Alka clung to the Ill-creature’s back, seeming oblivious to the terrible burns which covered much of his face and chest. He had driven his sword through the beast’s shoulder from behind. He had one arm wrapped around a wing for purchase and was using his body weight to drive the blade deeper into the monster’s body.

  The Ill-creature thrashed violently, trying to dislodge the elven warrior. It blasted the air with its wings and carved through the wooden deck with its talons, but Alka would not let go. The gleaming blue blade inched slowly toward the monster’s heart.

  Dacius moved forward, raising his sword for a left-handed strike, but the Ill-creature shot into the air, wings beating furiously against the added drag. He watched the beast’s progress, following the glowing shard of Alka’s sword against the night sky. It lifted higher and higher, gaining height slowly. Then suddenly it reversed direction and shot back toward the ship.

  The mocking laughter sounded again in Dacius’ skull as the Ill-creature came into sight. It dived without slowing, crashing through the weakened planks of the deck and through the hull below.

  Alka’s body smashed against the wood. He lacked the toughness of the Ill-creature. His spine bent horribly and the vorpal blade slid from his grasp.

  Water poured through the ruptured hull. Dacius had time to scream his friend’s name only once in despair before being thrown into the crashing waves.

  3

  Holy Man

  Marcus Alanda watched the storm rise over the Quiet Sea. The fury of the tempest and the suddenness of its approach made him wary. The thick black thunderheads rolled steadily northward. Then the leading edge of dark clouds dissipated, turning into gentle mists. It was the sign. If the storm had been natural, the Barrier would have had no effect. Evil was active in the Realm.

  For the third time in his life, the High Bishop felt a quiet summons in the back of his mind. Marcus turned away from the window and headed for the tower stairs. He descended the steps with a vigor that belied his three score years. Indeed, only the slate gray color of his short hair and the worry lines which surrounded his clear blue eyes gave any hint to his age. Living within the harmony of the Holy Land did much to keep a man young.

  His acolyte waited at the base of the tower.

  “Brother Ethnan,” Marcus said, “find Bishop Sarra and tell her to meet me at the docks in fifteen minutes. Then fetch the ferryman on duty. We will need his services tonight.”

  “Yes, Father Marcus,” Ethnan said, already departing.

  Marcus crossed to a small alcove. Every hall in the Cathedral of Light had such an alcove, and every alcove contained a reading pedestal and two books. The larger book contained the Scriptures of Jediah, written by the first High Bishop of the Holy Lands. The smaller book had many names: the Book of Truths, the Creation Codex, the Revelation of the Sphere. But most people simply called it the Old Book. Marcus opened it and read the first paragraph.