Long teeth sank into her shoulder, and her song became a scream. The wolf thrashed its head. Water splashed her face and hard fangs ripped through muscle and sinew. The jaws released her for an instant, then flashed toward her throat.

  Sulmar slammed into the beast, driving it off her. They wrestled together on the ground. Sulmar wrapped his arms around the wolf’s neck. He twisted and wrenched, but the wolf was too powerful. It broke free and rolled to its feet. It paused for an instant, yellowed fangs hovering a hand’s breadth from the Tengarian’s face. Then it whirled and ran for Chentelle.

  “No!”

  A sphere of magic exploded around the creature. Flames roared in the darkness like a thousand furnaces. Flesh burned away, leaving only a charred skeleton to clatter at her feet. A’stoc ran forward, mandril wand still thrust out before him. “Chentelle, are you all right?”

  She tried to answer, but the world spun into gray numbness.

  She drifted on warm and blissful music. The song washed through her, filling her with wellness. She felt the flesh of her shoulder knit together, and she accepted it without surprise. How else could it be?

  “She will be fine,” Father Marcus said, letting his chant fade away. “But she needs rest.”

  A’stoc still hovered over her, his eyes wild. “Why was she the target? Why did the wolf single her out?”

  “Because she was the one who drove them away last night,” Dacius answered calmly. “They perceived her as a special threat. What I want to know is how it came this close without being discovered. Leth? Gerruth?”

  The brothers winced and exchanged a helpless glance.

  “Perhaps I can explain it.” Thildemar was crouched near the bank of the stream. “Chentelle, was the wolf wet when it attacked you?”

  “Wet? I don’t know—wait. Yes. It splashed me with water as it bit.”

  “I thought so.” Thildemar walked back to the camp. “The wolf swam up the stream and emerged on the bank once it was past the sentries. The signs are clear.”

  “The stream!” Leth cried. “Lord Gemine, I beg for your pardon. We never thought to watch the water.”

  “And why should you?” Dacius said. “Who expects a wolf to slither upstream like a moccasin? But we must all be more wary. The enemy has many weapons to use against us.”

  “By the Creator.” Father Marcus’s voice was hushed. His eyes were wide with surprise and discovery.

  Dacius’s hand slapped against his sword hilt. “Where is it, High Bishop? What do you see?”

  “An answer.” He laid a hand on the Legionnaire’s shoulder. “Relax, my friend; there is no new danger. It is your wisdom that has opened my eyes. You give good counsel.”

  The priest knelt down beside Chentelle. “You have suffered much, enchantress, but time is not our ally. Can you ride?”

  Chentelle nodded. “I think so.”

  “Excellent.” The High Bishop turned to address the company. “These wolves do not know the nature of our quest, but we must escape them before the enemy turns his gaze in this direction. Do not lose heart. Despair is but another of the Dark One’s weapons. The Creator has not forgotten us. He still guides our steps, if we remember how to listen.”

  They mounted quickly and rode hard. The High Bishop led them unerringly to the northwest, following his inner sense of the Fallen Star’s location. The twin suns rose and chased each other across the sky, but Father Marcus only pushed their pace even harder. Late in the day, a deep shadow rose on the horizon before them, a thick haze that obscured all vision.

  “The Erietoph,” said Father Marcus. “We are close.”

  But the forest was still two leagues away, and Deneob was already vanishing into the west. Chentelle stroked Sundancer’s neck gently. The poor mare was exhausted. Her head hung low, and foam gathered around her mouth. Chentelle guided her over to the High Bishop’s mount. “Can’t we stop? The horses need to rest.”

  Father Marcus looked down at his own horse. If anything, his young gelding looked even more spent than Sundancer. He kicked himself out of the saddle. “We must continue, but we will lead the horses. They can rest once we reach the shelter of the trees.”

  “Lord Gemine, look!” Leth stood upright in his stirrups, pointing back to the southeast. A dozen silver-hued shapes coursed along their trail, perhaps half a league away.

  “The wolves,” Dacius growled. “A’stoc, can you stop them?”

  The wizard considered. “They are living flesh, so the Staff is useless. But with the archers help I should be able to defeat them with the mandril.”

  “And the second pack?” Thildemar gestured to the north. Another group of wolves ran toward them, many times as large as the first.

  18

  Erietoph Forest

  Father Marcus swung himself onto the gelding’s back. “Ride! We must make the forest.”

  They surged into a gallop, begging one final burst of speed from their weary mounts. A memory of pain throbbed in Chentelle’s shoulder, and her legs ached from fatigue. She rocked with Sundancer’s motion, feeling the tremor of strain in the mare’s gait. She reached for her Gift, trying to ease the horse’s burden, but the song was a feeble whisper, swallowed by the wind. Her head spun dizzily, and all she could do was cling desperately to Sundancer’s mane.

  Suddenly, Thildemar’s mount went down. The horse’s left foreleg snapped audibly, and it plowed into the earth with a frightened whinny. Thildemar launched himself from the saddle and landed in a smooth tuck. The old elf rolled several times, letting the ground absorb his momentum. Then he hopped to his feet and started to run. The lead wolves were less than two hundred cubits behind him.

  “Ride on!” Dacius shouted. “Head for the trees!” His own mount spun under his command, arcing around to circle behind the running elf. Dacius matched Thildemar’s course and hung low in his saddle. His arm hooked under Thildemar’s shoulder and swung the elf easily onto the back of his saddle. Simultaneously, he kicked the stallion’s ribs, urging the beast into a full gallop.

  But the wolves were closing fast. A few of the leaders paused by the fallen horse. They fell upon the helpless creature, ripping and tearing at the poor beast’s flesh while it screamed and kicked feebly. The rest of the pack charged after the fleeing Legionnaires, growling and yipping in anticipation.

  Thildemar faced backward on the horse’s rear. He had to clutch Dacius’ shoulders with both hands, but his feet remained free. As the first wolf approached, snapping and biting at the horse’s legs, the elf kicked. His worn boot landed solidly on the wolf’s snout. The beast yowled and stumbled, but as quickly as the one fell behind, three more surged forward to attack. The two weren’t going to make it.

  Warm air blasted Chentelle’s cheek.

  A jet of green fire roared toward the Legionnaires. The Earthpower forked around Dacius’ terrified mount and rejoined itself on the other side. Then the magic grounded itself into the hillside and flashed sideward in both directions. The flames formed a wall, six cubits high and a hundred wide.

  The first wolves were too close to avoid the barrier. Driven by their vile hosts, they leaped into the flames. The Earthpower let the living creatures pass through, but it latched on to the wraiths, ripping them from their shelters of flesh. Three wolves landed awkwardly on the near side of the wall; their fur was singed, but they were not seriously hurt. Three black shadows hung suspended in the wall. Deneob’s last rays caught them there, fracturing them into a thousand shards. Their pitiable wails echoed through the hills.

  A low moan caused Chentelle to snap her head around.

  A’stoc’s horse was stopped. The wizard stood rigidly in the stirrups, his arms shaking violently. Earthpower seethed along the length of the Staff, but it also raged through the wizard himself. The growl from his throat became louder and less coherent, and tremors spread outward from his arms. Suddenly, A’stoc’s entire body rocked in a great spasm. He was thrown backward out of the saddle and landed heavily on the hard ground.

  Chentelle gasped and reined in Sundancer’s flight. “Sulmar! Help me.”

  They raced back to where A’stoc lay. Chentelle called to the wizard’s mare and held her steady while Sulmar lifted A’stoc and set him across the saddle. Wisps of smoke rose from the dazed human’s body, carrying the scent of burned hair. The Thunderwood was grasped in his hand, inert now but still hot to the touch.

  “Hurry!” Dacius reined his stallion in beside them. The horse snorted and kicked at the earth, tearing large clumps from the hillside.

  Chentelle risked a glance beyond the Legionnaire’s shoulder. The wall of flames had vanished. More than that, the pack from the north had joined their brethren. Nearly a hundred wolves now charged after them.

  Sulmar slammed A’stoc’s right foot into the stirrup and wedged it into place. “Go!” He dashed for his own horse and leaped smoothly into the saddle.

  They ran. The shrouded forest lay just before them, but the snarling wolves seemed only a few steps behind. Chentelle’s back itched, and she imagined she could feel hot breath on her neck, wet saliva dripping from glistening fangs. Her fear would not let her turn around; the howls grew louder, closer.

  Finally, they passed into the mist. Chentelle’s skin tingled; the moisture seemed to fall through her rather than on her. The mists were thick, almost tangible, but they were through them almost immediately.

  A tangle of large trees loomed suddenly before them. Sundancer veered sharply, barely avoiding one of the trunks. Chentelle twisted on the mare’s back, reaching to catch hold of one of the limbs. Pain throbbed in her shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore it. Slowly, she pulled herself into the branches.

  “Quickly,” Father Marcus called from his own perch. “The wolves are coming!”

  The tree shook. Chentelle looked over and saw Sulmar swinging himself into the heights. The Tengarian climbed as quickly and freely as a child. In seconds, he was above her, reaching down to lift her to safety.

  Dacius and Thildemar found refuge in their own tree, but A’stoc was still moving in a daze. He climbed slowly, hampered by the Thunderwood Staff gripped in his left hand. He was barely out of the saddle when the first wolves emerged from the fog.

  The frightened horse reared as they approached and ran deeper into the woods. A’stoc reeled, nearly falling from the tree. He hung upside down for a moment, his legs and right arm clutched around a low branch.

  Two wolves leaped. The first snapped at A’stoc’s back, but its teeth caught only a scrap of hanging robe. The jaws of the second clamped around the Thunderwood, ripping the Staff from the wizard’s hand.

  A’stoc screamed with rage. His eyes grew wide, and he wrenched himself onto the top of the branch. Still lying prone, he started chanting in harsh syllables. The mandril appeared in his hand, and he leveled it at the running wolf. A jet of hot flame caught the beast in mid-stride, reducing flesh and bone alike to ashes. Even after the wolf was gone, A’stoc poured power into the blaze. A raging fire grew, surrounding the untarnished wood of the Staff.

  Then A’stoc shifted his focus. Scores of wolves were now weaving in and out of the trees, leaping and snapping in futile attempts to reach the company. One by one, he began to pick them off. Spheres of fire shot through the trees, swallowing wolf after wolf.

  Chentelle felt the anguish of their deaths, both the helpless rage of the wraiths and the confused pain of the wolves. And she felt something else, an ancient presence waking slowly and becoming angry. “A’stoc, stop!”

  But the wizard was beyond counsel. The mandril flicked back and forth, finding and tracking new victims. Fireballs flashed from its tip, roaring in chorus to A’stoc’s guttural spell. Another wolf fell, then another. Then one of the spheres missed its target. The flames burst against a massive tree. Half of the trunk exploded into burning fragments, and the tree crashed to the ground.

  “Nooo!” Agony stabbed through Chentelle’s mind. It was not just a tree, it was a lifelm. Beltis, the name echoed in her thoughts in a woman’s voice. Memories flooded her, the recollections of a millennium vanishing into smoke. She pressed her face against the tree that sheltered her, letting her tears run down its trunk.

  “Chentelle?” A’stoc shook his head in confusion. “What are—” His eyes went round as he saw the burning tree. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

  A wordless moan filled the forest around them, throbbing in their ears and vibrating through the marrow of their bones. The dire wolves started whining and slinking submissively.

  Suddenly, huge roots burst from the ground. A dozen wolves were wrapped in wooden coils and dragged under the earth. As soon as they vanished, a fierce wind blew through the trees. Some wolves were lifted into air and dashed against hardwood trunks. The rest were blasted back onto the plain in a tempest of twigs and flying leaves.

  Chentelle wrapped her arms around the trunk, ready to fight against the wind. But no wind came. Slowly, she forced herself to relax. Amazingly, a hurricane whistled across the forest floor, but six cubits above not a branch was stirring.

  The last of the wolves disappeared into the mists, and the night became suddenly very still and very silent. The only sound was the crackling of flames around the Thunderwood and the fallen lifelm. Father Marcus chanted a quick prayer, and orb-light pressed back the darkness.

  A’stoc swung down to the ground and walked over to the Thunderwood. He passed the mandril slowly over the flames, and fire swirled upward and disappeared into the wand. Then he reached down and picked up the Staff. The wood remained whole and perfect, as if the flames had never touched it. Smiling thinly, the wizard turned and walked over to the burning lifelm.

  Chentelle started to climb down from the tree, but Sulmar’s hand closed on her wrist. She started to voice a protest—then froze. She heard it. Shifting branches and a slow, heavy thudding, like the tread of some huge beast.

  Soon everyone heard it. Swords slid from their sheaths, and arrows slapped against taut strings. But the vorpal metal glowed only with reflected orb-light. Whatever was coming was no Ill-creature.

  A’stoc stood exposed in the clearing. He spun to face the noise, but made no attempt to run. He was at least a dozen cubits away from any tree large enough to provide shelter, and the sound was close. He planted the Staff against the earth and raised the mandril wand.

  A huge figure pressed through the trees and into the small clearing. It was a giant! He stood at least nine cubits tall and nearly half that wide. He strode forward on gnarled legs, and his massive hands clutched an oaken staff as thick as a human’s chest. His gaze locked on to A’stoc, and he lifted the staff above his head. His voice was a deep rumble that easily filled the clearing. “Stand aside!”

  A’stoc moved cautiously to his left.

  As soon as he was out of the way, the giant started to chant. The language he used was strange, almost harsh. Syllables scraped against each other like slabs of stone, but the rhythm was steady, tranquil. Wind gusted around the giant’s feet, then swirled forward to surround the lifelm, Beltis. Frost formed on her bark, and a thick blanket of snow materialized to smother the flames.

  Chentelle felt the pull of the giant’s song. The winter wind wrapped Beltis in a tender embrace, easing her into a painless death. The lifelm’s relief and gratitude poured into Chentelle, and she sang.

  Her voice twined through and around the giant’s chant, warm life blending with cold death. It was Beltis’ song, a song of deep roots and falling rain, of long tales and windblown leaves. It sang of joy and family and profound contentment, of patience and understanding as fathomless as the underground sea. It sang good-bye and fare well. It sang peace.

  The two songs ended as one, and the giant let his staff rest against the earth. He turned to face Chentelle, his nearly bald head level with hers as she stood in the tree. His eyes were stark blue rings surrounding deep circles of emptiness. They latched on to hers with a need that bordered on desperation. Pain lived in those eyes, and sadness beyond words. But they held hope, too, and surprise. “What magic is this? Your song captures grief and turns it to love.”

  “It is my Gift,” Chentelle said, “I am an enchantress. But the song was not mine. I was only the messenger.”

  The giant nodded. His eyes closed and he lifted his head as if he heard the music still. Large tears slid freely down his weathered face.

  Tension eased from the company. Swords were sheathed and arrows replaced in their quivers. Dacius dropped to the ground, and the others were quick to follow. Even A’stoc relaxed, letting Staff and mandril drop to his sides.

  “Well,” the wizard said, “what do we do now?”

  The giant’s head snapped down and his eyes fixed on A’stoc. A finger larger than Chentelle’s wrist jabbed toward the wizard. “You are the one, the murderer of Beltis. Your life is forfeit for destroying one of the ancients.”

  “What?” A’stoc’s mouth went wide in surprise. “Surely, you are not serious? It was an accident. I meant no harm to the tree.” His knuckles went white on the Thunderwood, and the mandril twitched in his hand, though he did not raise it.

  “Nevertheless—”

  “One moment.” Father Marcus stepped forward, interposing himself between A’stoc and the giant. “Your pardon, sir, but this company travels under my authority. If any blame is to be leveled, it is mine to bear. I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan. May I ask with whom I speak?”

  If the giant was impressed by the priest’s title, he gave no sign. “I am Glathrel Geodimondan, Last of the Giants, Keeper of the Erietoph.”

  “Keeper?” the High Bishop asked.

  “Servant, if you prefer.” The giant shrugged. “The words are identical.”

  Chentelle sensed confusion in the priest. “Father Marcus,” she said softly, “this forest is aware. It knows we are here.”

  Glathrel nodded. “The singer is correct. The Erietoph has a will, and I am the voice of that will.”