She grabbed the High Bishop’s arm. “But do all changes have to be evil? What if we could make it better?”

  “Chentelle!” Now he was shocked. “You, of all people, should know better than that. With your Gift, you touch the Creation more closely than any of us. You have felt the Creator’s plan, the Truth that binds us all together. You know its beauty, its perfection. When the world is healed, there will be no strife, no conflict. All things will live in accordance with their nature, distinct but in absolute peace. There is no better world.”

  Chentelle dropped her eyes and let go of his sleeve. “You’re right. The plan sings to me: all things in their place, all creatures balanced in harmony. It’s—it’s too exquisite for words. I can touch it, feel it, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. And I know that I will never love it again.”

  Father Marcus stared at her, alarm and confusion churning behind his eyes. “But, Chentelle, how can you not love it? It is perfect.”

  Chentelle nodded. “I know. The problem is, I am not.”

  There was nothing else to say. She rose to her feet and climbed back onto Sundancer’s back. As if waiting for her cue, Dacius called for an end to their rest. In moments, they were back on the road. Chentelle and A’stoc continued to avoid each other, and now Father Marcus was withdrawn as well. The company rode in awkward silence until only a sliver of Deneob remained above the horizon. Then they stopped and set up a hurried camp.

  The supper was cold and tasteless. Chentelle swallowed as much of it as she could stomach, then wrapped herself tightly into her blankets. Dacius had set up a watch schedule, but neither she nor Sulmar was on it. It was just as well. The night was not cold, but she couldn’t stop shivering. She shut her eyes and surrendered to the numbness of sleep.

  Morning came almost immediately. Chentelle fought free of the bedroll and climbed to her feet. Half consciously, she rolled up the blankets and stowed them in her pack. Then she pulled herself awkwardly onto Sundancer’s back. She let the mare set her own course, trusting her to stay close to the other mounts. Chentelle’s own eyes were closed. She felt Ellistar’s light on her face, but it didn’t warm.

  They halted at midmorning for a light meal. Dacius pulled out the dwarven map and spread it on the ground. “We have a choice to make. I mark our position to be here, just shy of the Desecration’s boundary.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “Our destination is the Erietoph Forest, right, Father Marcus?”

  “Beyond the forest,” the priest replied. “But that heading will serve us for now.”

  “Of course.” Dacius ran his finger in a straight line to the northwest corner of the map, which was dominated by a densely colored forest. The path he indicated took them straight through an area marked only by the word “waste.” “As you can see, the direct route takes us straight into the Trollskin Desert. We should be able to make the crossing in two days. If we skirt it to the north, it will take at least three, maybe four. But we’ll be fresher when we reach the other side.”

  “We should go through,” Marcus said. “Speed is vital.”

  Thildemar pointed to the map. “I thought that I knew all the forests of the Realm, but this Erietoph is new to me. Do any of you know it?”

  “There is a verse in one of the Prophecies of Jediah,” Father Marcus said absently. “It speaks of sanctuary and trial in a forest beyond the mists. The verse might refer to the Erietoph, but it is impossible to be certain.”

  “Strange.” The old elf stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Still, it is well beyond the western frontier, that land is seldom traveled. Father Marcus, do you know what we will find beyond the forest?”

  There was a long silence, then Dacius stepped in with an answer. “The Mountains of Time begin on the other side. Fel told me that there used to be a dwarven settlement there, Marble Falls. It hasn’t been in contact with the Realm since before the Wizards’ War, and he wasn’t certain of its location, but it’s our best bet to find help and resupply.”

  “A new forest and a forgotten city.” Thildemar smiled. “There’s a song in this, or I’m no poet.”

  A strange look passed over Dacius’ face. “I just hope it has a better ending than your last creation.”

  As if responding to an unspoken signal, the Legionnaires started stowing their gear. Minutes later, they entered the grim wasteland of the Trollskin.

  Chentelle had never seen a troll’s skin, but if it resembled this desert then they were ugly creatures indeed. The hard ground had a grayish-brown tint and was webbed with sunbaked cracks. The terrain was scarred, forcing them to wind their way through a maze of deep pits and gullies. Occasionally, a thorny bush managed to scratch a bleak existence from the waste, but there were no grasses or forage for the horses.

  As evening neared, a wall of black clouds closed in on them from the north. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the roar of thunder was unmistakable.

  Dacius ordered an immediate halt. Hurriedly, the Legionnaires erected the tent and tied it down with extra supports. Everything went inside: people, horses, equipment. The shelter was barely secured before the first splatter of rain pounded angrily at the canvas. The company huddled together, sharing silence and cold rations.

  Chentelle found herself staring at A’stoc. She wanted to go to him, to wrap herself in his arms and ride out the storm. Frustration roared in her soul, echoing the thunder outside. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She refused to give up. There had to be a way.

  Sighing quietly, she stood up and moved over to the horses. The poor creatures shifted nervously at each clap of thunder. She reached out to them, touching them softly with her Gift. She was tired and angry and empty inside, but she let the music fill her. She sang to herself as much as to the horses, wrapping them all in a melody of warmth and safety.

  A’stoc stared at her as if entranced. The emotion swelling behind his eyes mirrored her own heart exactly, but she wasn’t sure whether it was torment or joy. Maybe it was both.

  Morning was cold. The lightning had passed beyond them, but heavy clouds still hid the suns, and steady rain beat down on their backs. Murky water swirled around the horses’ hooves, running swiftly over hard ground in some places and forming deep pockets of mud in others. They were forced to dismount often and lead the horses over treacherous stretches of terrain. The gray mud clung to their clothing, smelling powerfully of decay and seemingly impervious to the cleansing effect of rainwater.

  Shortly after midday, the storm finally broke. The clouds scattered and then vanished as if they had never been. Deneob’s light beat down on them. The warmth was welcome, but the humid air was soon heavy with putrid odors. No one objected when Dacius pushed onward without stopping for a noon meal.

  Just before nightfall, they halted and made camp. Dacius parceled out supplies for the evening, including the last of the oats they carried for the horses. As soon as they were settled, he brought out the map again.

  “The storm slowed us too much. We’re a long day still from the edge of the desert, assuming we don’t find more delays. That’s if we hold to our present course.” He turned to Father Marcus. “If we turn due north, we’ll reach the boundary sooner.”

  “That takes us out of our way,” the priest said. “It will slow us down.”

  “Yes, but not as much as if we lose our mounts.” Dacius nodded to the horses. “If we don’t find them decent forage soon, they’ll suffer. Some may even die.”

  Father Marcus hesitated, then nodded. “You are right, of course. Haste is important, but we must not let it blind us to other needs. What do you suggest?”

  Dacius jabbed a finger at the map. “There’s a town here, Sutan Marr. If we turn north now, we’ll be less than three days’ ride from it once we clear the desert. We can replenish our supplies and follow the open plain all the way to the Erietoph.”

  “Then that is our course,” the High Bishop said. “I yield to your wisdom in this.”

  The next day’s travel was even slower. The ground had solidified. Indeed, it gave no hint that there had even been a storm. But the horses were exhausted. The party alternated between walking and riding until midday, then simply led the horses the rest of the way. By the time Ellistar set in the west, the terrain had begun to change.

  The gray clay gave way to a layer of soil, not rich but still fertile. Clumps of grass began to appear, along with other sprouts which the horses eagerly devoured. The landscape before them flowed into gently rolling hills covered with lush grass and the occasional patch of wildflowers. To their right, a spur of mountains thrust in their direction. The slopes were blanketed with the deep hues of juniper and pine, while the peaks glistened with snow.

  Dacius took them only a short way into the hills before calling a halt. He removed his helm. Chentelle realized that he must be very tired in that armor, but he would never admit it. “We’ll stop here. Give the horses free range and then let them rest. They need it, and so do we.”

  “Do you know where we are?” Father Marcus asked.

  Dacius pointed. “That’s the western reach of the Pretgard Mountains. If we turn back to the northwest here, we should make Sutan Marr in three days of easy riding.”

  “Excellent,” the priest said. “So we will be on the road again at first-light.”

  “Not unless we’re forced to,” Dacius said. “These horses will make it to the village, but they won’t go much farther unless we give them more rest. I’d rather keep them healthy. Even if we can find replacements at Sutan Marr, they would be poor substitutes for Legion steeds.”

  The High Bishop nodded agreement. If he bristled at the new delay, he gave no outward sign.

  For once, they ate a leisurely meal, neither too hurried nor too exhausted to enjoy their rations. Of course, the rations themselves were much depleted, but the atmosphere remained buoyant.

  Chentelle took advantage of the time to groom the horses. Drup volunteered to help, and together they set out to give each mount a good brushing and hoof trimming. The young elf tried his best to engage her in song and pleasant conversation, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept laughing an instant too late at his jokes, and her own attempts at humor fell woefully short. By the time they were finished, it was nearly dark. Chentelle thanked the Legionnaire for his help and settled in for a good night’s sleep.

  She woke to the warm glare of both suns full above the horizon. She scrambled quickly to her feet, certain that she had overslept. If so, she was not the only one. A’stoc, Father Marcus, and most of the Legionnaires were still in bed, too. Only Dacius, Drup, and Sulmar were up.

  Chentelle smiled and repacked her bedding, then she walked over to join them. They spent the morning easily, sharing interesting tales and stories of home. To her delight, Chentelle found that she was able, even eager to join in. The morning just had an optimistic feel to it.

  Dacius let the company rest until midmorning, then led them to the northwest. They spent two days riding without incident over gentle hills. On the third, they spotted smoke rising from the west.

  “Cooking fires!” Drup called excitedly. “Oak and ash, it will be good to taste warm food again.”

  They turned toward the smoke and almost immediately ran into a worn trail rutted with wagon tracks. By midday, the small hamlet of Sutan Marr came into view, resting on the crests of twinned hills. It took only a glance to see that something was terribly wrong. The smoke was rising not from chimneys, but from the remains of the buildings themselves. Burnt timbers and blackened stone were all that remained of the small shops and farmhouses. Only the large hall in the town center was still standing, and its doors had been battered down.

  “Leth, Gerruth, check the perimeter. Everyone else is with me. Keep your eyes open for survivors.” Dacius spurred his horse into a gallop.

  They charged up the hill and into the village square. Carrion birds scattered at their approach, squawking in protest and moving just out of reach. The smell hit them a moment later, removing any doubt. There were no survivors.

  “Thildemar.”

  The old elf dropped smoothly to the ground and examined the field. “The fires are mostly out, but the deep embers are still warm. Call it two days.” He examined a series of tracks. “Wolves, northern grays from the size, but no natural animal fired these buildings.”

  Chentelle stared at the tracks. They were huge, twice the size of any wolf’s paw she’d ever seen. “What are you saying? Wolves don’t attack people. They must have come after the attack.”

  “No, enchantress.” Thildemar pointed to scratch marks on the door of the hall. The wood inside the scratches was charred, indicating that it had been fired after the wolves tried to force it. “I fear these are dire wolves.”

  “Dire wolves?”

  “He means they are possessed, Chentelle.” A’stoc stared intently at a point just past her shoulder. “This pack is subjugated to the will of wraiths, shadows like those that attacked us on the road.”

  She shuddered, remembering the horrors she had seen in her dream.

  Leth and Gerruth rode up to join them. “The perimeter is clear,” Leth said. “There are wolf tracks leading north, but they are at least a day old.”

  Dacius nodded and swung out of his saddle. “Everybody down. Forget about supplies; anything here will be spoiled. Gather the bodies and move them into the hall. We can’t stay long, but I won’t leave these people for carrion.”

  They moved through the rubble, collecting whatever remains they found. Chentelle’s stomach churned at the carnage. Body parts were thrown randomly through the village, many of them half-eaten. This was no natural pattern of feeding, it was deliberate desecration.

  There was no hope of sorting out individual remains, so they simply laid the pieces into a communal pile. Father Marcus said a quick blessing, and they left the hall. Then Dacius nodded to A’stoc. Flames shot from the mandril, so hot that the stones themselves caught fire. In seconds, the hall was transformed into a funeral pyre.

  No roads led westward from the town, so they took to the open plain. Dacius pushed their pace much harder, now, though he still took care that the horses were not overtaxed. The company traveled until past sunset and then made a hurried camp. They had barely finished their evening ration when the first howl split the night.

  It was a mad and maddening sound, tortured and cruel at once. But, fortunately, it was faint and far off. The silence that followed it stretched for long minutes. Then came the second cry, no less jarring and much nearer.

  “Stand ready,” Dacius said.

  Swords slid from their sheaths and arrows slid onto readied bows.

  “Wait,” Chentelle said. “If it is wolves, let me try first.”

  Dacius raised his sword. The steel shimmered with a faint blue aura. “You can try, Chentelle, but stay behind us. These are no ordinary animals. Archers, fire on my mark, not before.”

  The howls grew louder and more frequent. The vorpal blades glowed brighter. Chentelle steadied herself, marshaling her Gift and preparing a song.

  The wolves appeared, a dozen of them or more. They were huge, tall as ponies and nearly as thick. Their eyes shone yellow, and their coats shimmered with pale silver light. They charged the company, baying wildly in anticipation.

  Chentelle called out to them, shaping her song into a message of peace and coexistence. She sang of brotherhood and packs and the bonds that went beyond hunger. Her music danced with friendship and sharing, and it would not be ignored.

  The lead wolves skidded to a halt, yipping in surprise and pain. Behind them, their packmates milled in confusion. One of the leaders tried to advance again, then howled in agony. He turned and bolted back the way he had come, followed closely by the rest of the pack.

  “You did it,” Dacius said, surprised. “You drove them off, and most effectively.”

  “But it shouldn’t have happened like that.” Chentelle stared into the empty darkness. “They should have welcomed the Gift, not run away in pain.”

  “It is the influence of the wraith,” A’stoc said. “It twists them from within.”

  A chill wind blew across Chentelle’s back. “Can we have a fire, now? They already know where we are.”

  “No,” Dacius said. “The wolves know, but there may be other eyes searching for us.”

  Other eyes. Chentelle wrapped herself in a blanket and tried to suppress a shiver. She knew the watch that night would be particularly alert, but sleep was still a long time coming. She wished she could have close company, but knew that was neither likely nor wise.

  Dacius had them awake and mounted before first-light. There had been no more trouble in the night, but he wanted to put distance between them and the pack.

  The land beyond Sutan Marr flattened out into a wide prairie. Looking at the horizons, Chentelle could see that it climbed steadily to the northwest, but the grade was shallow enough that it did not strain the horses. They made good progress, but the wind grew colder with each league.

  They stopped that night near a narrow stream. The water was fresh and clear, but bitingly cold. Gratefully, they refilled canteens and washed away the dirt of the trail. Then they ate and settled in for another cold and fireless night.

  Chentelle dreamt that she was cold and wet and hungry. She traveled a long, hard road, but a hot meal waited at its end. Then she could find a warm bed. It would be paradise.

  She woke to screaming.

  “Wolf! Wolf in the camp!”

  Her eyes snapped open. Bared fangs snapped and snarled only a few cubits from her face.

  An arrow whistled and buried itself deeply into the wolf’s side. The beast staggered sideways, but showed no sign of pain. It righted itself instantly and charged for Chentelle.

  She scrambled backward, trying to escape. But the blankets were still wrapped tightly around her legs. She stumbled and went down.

  The wolf leaped.

  Desperately, Chentelle sang out with the Gift, hoping to drive the beast away. It had no effect. The creature was rabid with blood lust and frenzy. There was no will for her music to touch.