“GO!”

  The platform shot into the air.

  “Wait!” Chentelle screamed.

  The disk stopped, hovering ten cubits above the ground.

  Sulmar raced toward them. Two Tenebrites moved to intercept him. The Tengarian swerved around the first and ran straight toward the second. He rolled under the shadow knight’s thrust and came up behind it, severing one of its legs in the process.

  The Ill-creature staggered, and Sulmar jumped. He planted one foot on the broad thorax and the other on the armored back. Using the Tenebrite as a platform, he launched himself into the air. His left hand caught the edge of the disk, and he hung from the rim.

  Dacius and Thildemar grabbed his wrist and pulled him quickly on board.

  “Go!” Chentelle shouted.

  The platform shot upward, climbing toward the unexplored heights above Karsh Adon.

  21

  Fallen Star

  The platform climbed slowly up the side of Karsh Adon—four hundred, five hundred, a thousand cubits into the air, and the top was nowhere in sight. The pale flickering of A’stoc’s spell illuminated the sheer wall of the Barrier Ridge; all else was darkness.

  Chentelle was strangely disoriented. Her ears ached, and the frigid air trickled through her cloak. They floated above mountains, but she felt as if they were diving deep into an icy sea. Was it water or wind that made her shiver? The throb of her own heart beat painfully in her skull. Finally, the pressure vanished, and welcome relief flooded through her. The world snapped back into focus.

  A’stoc remained frozen in concentration, eyes closed, rhythmic spell flowing slowly through tense lips. The Earthpower shimmered in time to his chant, carrying them steadily upward in a nimbus of flame.

  Gerruth moaned softly, and his eyes flickered open. He stared blankly for a moment, then lunged for the side of the disk.

  “No!” Father Marcus grabbed the Legionnaire and pulled him into a firm embrace. They tumbled together to the floor of the platform, less than a cubit from the rim. “Don’t give in to it. Remember the love. The pain will pass.”

  Gerruth screamed, drowning out Father Marcus’ soft words. Tears crystallized on his face, and he struggled to escape from the priest’s clinch. “Let me go! I have to save him! I have to—”

  “GERRUTH.” Dacius’ voice cut through the tumult. “REMEMBER YOUR DUTY. YOUR BROTHER IS DEAD. DO NOT LET HIS SACRIFICE BE IN VAIN.”

  The Legionnaire froze. Color rose in his face, and his hands clenched into trembling fists, but his eyes slid into focus. He sat up slowly, disengaging himself from Father Marcus’ loosened grip. “Thank you, Lord Gemine. I will carry out my duty.”

  “THAT’S ALL I ASK. LETH WAS AN EXCELLENT LEGIONNAIRE. WHEN THE TIME COMES, WE WILL MOURN HIM TOGETHER.”

  Gerruth nodded and turned away. He stood facing the cliff, his eyes turned slightly upward and his right hand twitched on the hilt of his sword.

  The gray face of Karsh Adon floated silently by. Cubit after cubit of blank stone disappeared into the darkness below, broken only rarely by a shallow cave or a craggy ledge. The expanse seemed endless.

  Then one fact became clear. Their ascent was slowing.

  Chentelle’s eyes snapped toward A’stoc. Sweat beaded on the wizard’s brow, and the muscles along his jaw twitched with tension. The Thunderwood Staff trembled slightly in his hands, and an answering tremor shook the platform.

  “CAN YOU MAKE IT, A’STOC? WE PASSED A LEDGE NOT LONG AGO THAT SHOULD HOLD US WHILE YOU RECOVER STRENGTH.”

  The platform kept rising.

  A’stoc’s spell grated from between clenched teeth, but his voice never faltered. Their pace slowed. The cubits crawled by, each one surrendering its height more grudgingly than the last. But surrender they did, and soon the summit came into view.

  Suddenly, wind whipped against Chentelle’s face. The platform lurched sideways and dropped away from her feet. Her stomach twisted wildly, and she scrambled for a handhold. As her hand closed around the wood, the disk jerked to a halt. She tumbled to the floor, slamming her head against the wood. Pain blurred her vision, but her right hand kept a firm grip on the handle.

  Something brushed against her other arm, and she grabbed it reflexively. Her hand closed around leatherbark, and a sudden weight tore at her grip.

  It was Gerruth! The Legionnaire dangled over the edge of the platform. A loose pack slid off of the disk, barely missing the elf’s head. His hand closed around her forearm and squeezed tightly.

  New strain burned in her shoulders, and the fingers of her hand started to slide across the wooden handhold.

  “Mistress!” Sulmar’s hand locked around her right wrist. His other hand kept an iron grip on his own handhold.

  Then, the pressure of Gerruth’s weight disappeared. Father Marcus had both arms wrapped around the Legionnaire’s chest. Dacius anchored the priest’s legs while he pulled the elf back onto the platform.

  “Wizard A’stoc,” the High Bishop said once Gerruth was secure on the disk, “please lower us to the ledge. We have come too far to risk disaster now.”

  The platform didn’t move.

  “Wait.” Chentelle understood. Determination screamed in the wizard’s stance, fueled by a desperate fatalism. He had set this task before him as a test, a trial to see if he was ready for the challenge to come. To turn back was tantamount to surrender. “It’s all right, A’stoc. Keep going. We trust you.”

  The platform began to rise again. It moved slowly, but without any hint of trembling. This time, there was no sudden lurch when they left the lee of the cliff. The platform held steady in the wind and continued to float upward. Finally, the top of the ridge slid into view, revealing a wide cleft covered in ice and snow.

  “GRAB YOUR PACKS. PREPARE TO JUMP.”

  The platform halted its rise and drifted toward the cliff. It bumped against the stone, perhaps two cubits from the top.

  “GO!”

  One by one, the Legionnaires sprang onto the summit. Father Marcus followed, levering himself into their waiting arms with his crutches. Then Dacius nodded to Chentelle and Sulmar. The Tengarian vaulted easily onto the ridge and turned back to lift her.

  “No.” She turned to Dacius. “You go on. I’ll ride with A’stoc.”

  The human stared at her, or at least she thought he did. The blank mask of his helm was unnerving. It seemed to shield him even from her Gift. Without another word, he turned sharply and pulled himself onto the ledge.

  The platform moved away from the stone, quivering slightly. A’stoc’s eyes were open, now, but they drifted without focus. His face was pale, and his cheeks hung slack as he chanted his spell. The trembling in his hands was growing steadily.

  Chentelle grabbed his forearm with both hands. Emotion raged through her Gift: fear, anger, love, recrimination, but most of all weariness. “Just a little farther, A’stoc, and the platform is so much lighter. You can do it.”

  Resolution flowed through the wizard. The disk steadied and rose the last few cubits. It glided laterally until they were securely above solid ground, then settled heavily into the icy snow. A’stoc pulled the Staff free of the wood and reined in the Earthpower. The instant the flames vanished, he collapsed in a heap.

  Chentelle held on to his shoulders, barely managing to keep his head from hitting the wood. The wizard was unconscious, but his breathing was steady and regular. With Sulmar’s help, she managed to drag him off the platform and settle him in the shelter of a large boulder.

  Dacius motioned to his men. Together, they carried the platform to a nearby drift. “COVER IT WITH SNOW. WE DON’T WANT THE ILL-CREATURES TO FIND IT. WE’LL NEED IT FOR THE RETURN TRIP.”

  The Legionnaires used their blades to smooth snow over the disk. Then Thildemar used a blanket to mask any tracks leading to and from the drift.

  “EVERYONE MARK THIS SPOT. YOU NEED TO BE ABLE TO FIND THE PLATFORM ON YOUR OWN, IN CASE WE BECOME SEPARATED.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Father Marcus said. “Now, we should find shelter as soon as possible. We need rest, and the cold will kill us if we stay in the open. Put A’stoc on the stretcher. I can walk with the crutches.”

  They worked their way out of the cleft and emerged onto a wide plateau. An unblemished blanket of snow stretched for leagues around them. Mountains rose in the distance, sheathed entirely in ice. The cold wind blasted against them, stinging hands and faces with its fury.

  Father Marcus pressed forward without hesitation, hobbling unsteadily on the frozen turf. He kept their course set firmly to the northwest, following his inner sense of the Fallen Star.

  They marched for an hour or more, driving through the snow until the numbness of cold and the numbness of exhaustion were indistinguishable. They were less than halfway to the first mountains, and no other shelter was visible.

  Sulmar pressed his face close to Chentelle’s. “Mistress, we should stop here.”

  “We can’t,” she said. “We need shelter.”

  “Yes, mistress, but we will not find it. We will have to make our own.” His voice held both certainty and urgency.

  “Father Marcus!” she yelled. “Wait!”

  The High Bishop paused and turned to face her.

  “Sulmar says we should make camp here!”

  “You will not make the mountains, but this snow is deep enough for shelter.” The Tengarian drew his sword and began digging an angled tunnel into the frost. Then he paused, seeing incomprehension on the other’s faces. “My people know the mountains. The snow will protect us from the cold and wind. Make each hole large enough for two people to share heat, but no larger. And do not dig too deeply; the weight will make it collapse.”

  The party hesitated, turning to Father Marcus.

  The priest hesitated in turn, turning back to look at the mountains. “We are so close. I can feel it.”

  “HOW CLOSE?” Dacius asked.

  “Tomorrow,” the priest said, turning back to the company. “We will reach it tomorrow. For tonight, do as Sulmar says. I trust his knowledge no less than his sword.”

  They carved four warrens into the snow, with Sulmar supervising each construction. By the time they finished, fresh snow had begun to fall. Father Marcus had them place A’stoc with him, so that he could help the wizard regain his strength. The Legionnaires paired off among themselves, and Chentelle shared the last den with her liegeman.

  “The snow is good,” Sulmar said, “so long as it does not fall too heavily. It will hide our tracks and keep the night from becoming too cold.”

  Chentelle shivered under the layers of blanket and pressed herself against Sulmar’s warmth. If this night wasn’t already too cold, she didn’t want to know what was. Her hands and feet stung as if she had been running through brambles, but at least sensation was returning. She started to compliment Sulmar on his ingenuity, but yawned deeply instead. Sleep came for her suddenly, carrying dreams of endless glaciers.

  She snapped alert at the pressure of a hand across her mouth. It was Sulmar. The Tengarian pointed to his bared blade. The vorpal metal shone with soft blue light. Ill-creatures! They watched the faint glow grow slowly brighter, then fade into cold steel again. They hadn’t been discovered.

  Chentelle steadied herself and tried to relax, but the rest that had come so quickly before was now elusive. She lay awake for a long while, searching the darkness for any hint of vorpal light.

  Father Marcus woke them at first-light. Snow was still falling, or falling again, though it was not as heavy as it had been the night before. Heavy clouds covered the plateau, shrouding the landscape in shades of gray. Despite the cold and the gloom, a hopeful mood pervaded the company. Father Marcus rested firmly on his crutches, showing no signs of discomfort. A’stoc stood beside him, apparently fully recovered from his exhaustion. Even Gerruth’s anger and pain had been tempered by the night’s rest.

  “This is the day,” Father Marcus said. “Please, join hands and help me welcome this morning. We have come so far, and today our quest reaches its conclusion.”

  They formed a circle, and the High Bishop guided them through the First Meditation.

  “In peace, there is harmony.

  In harmony, there is unity.

  In unity, there is healing.

  In healing, there is peace.”

  The chant rolled across the icy plateau, driving back the gray clouds. The mists did not vanish entirely, but Ellistar’s light seemed to shine a little brighter.

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. “Now, let us be off. With the Creator’s blessing we can complete our mission before the Ill-creatures find us.”

  “It does not matter,” A’stoc said. “The Ill-creatures already know where the Fallen Star lies.”

  “What? Are you certain?” Marcus’ eyes bore into the wizard.

  “Of course. Do not delude yourself. How else has it been possible for them to hound our path so effectively? The attack at Marble Falls, the mudworm, the assault before the Barrier Ridge—at each stage they were able to anticipate our destination. Obviously, they have found the Fallen Star, or at least discerned its general location.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” the priest asked.

  “It would have made no difference,” A’stoc said. “Our path would have been the same. This confrontation has long been inevitable.”

  The High Bishop’s calm certainty suddenly vanished, replaced by grim determination. He grabbed his pack and slung it over a shoulder. The motion disrupted his balance, and he teetered unsteadily on his crutches. He righted himself, and paused for a moment, struggling visibly to regain his composure. Finally, he turned and limped away into the falling snow. “It is time to leave.”

  A’stoc grabbed Chentelle as she turned to follow the company. He pressed something into her hand—the mandril wand. “Keep this with you. I implanted a levitation spell when I bound the wood of the platform. If I die, use your Gift to activate the mandril. It will trigger the spell. The platform will levitate for two minutes before it descends. Use that time to push it clear of the cliff.”

  “A’stoc, I—”

  “Don’t argue! Listen carefully. Tie yourselves securely to the disk. Lowering is easier than lifting, but it still requires power. The platform will drop very quickly until it is three hundred cubits from the ground. Then it will slow. You may land hard, but you will survive.” He closed her fingers around the wand and squeezed tightly. “Do this, Chentelle. It may be your only hope to see Lone Valley again.”

  He spun away before she could answer, and fell into the line of march. Chentelle hesitated, then realized that she had no choice. She tucked the mandril into her cloak and hurried after him.

  Father Marcus refused all entreaties to moderate his pace. He drove relentlessly through the deep snow, his wounded leg dragging uselessly behind. After several hours, they reached the foothills of the frozen mountains. The snow had stopped falling. But the clouds remained, and the rocky ground was treacherously slick.

  Father Marcus attacked the slope. He slipped almost immediately and crashed to the snow. Without hesitating, he tossed away his crutches and started to crawl. He would neither stop nor allow himself to be carried. “I will make the climb,” he said plainly, and the passion in his voice could not be denied. All the others could do was collect his discarded crutches and follow.

  The High Bishop scrambled up the mountainside, driving his hands through ice and snow and pulling himself at last over the crest of the summit. He collapsed for a moment, letting his face rest in the cold powder. Then he sat up. A narrow circle of level ground formed the apex of the hill, and a hill it was compared to what lay before them. A grim mountain sat directly ahead, its steep granite slopes vanishing into the clouds.

  A narrow pass curved southward, driving between the mountain ahead and its neighbor. The priest oriented on the opening and started crawling forward.

  “Father Marcus, wait.” Chentelle ran up and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. Her arm tingled under the desperate need that drove him. “Please, I know the quest is urgent, but I’m exhausted. Can’t we rest for a minute? We may need our strength once we find the Fallen Star.”

  The priest’s eyes stared blankly through her for a second, then pulled into focus. “Of course, Chentelle. Forgive me. The proximity of the Star calls to me. Its pull grows stronger the nearer we get. But you are correct; I must maintain control. We shall rest here.”

  The company ate a hurried meal of cold rations. As they finished, the cover of the clouds parted momentarily, allowing the red light of Deneob to shine through clearly. The Winter Sun was already well past zenith.

  “Gather your things,” Father Marcus said. “We must be on our way.”

  “HIGH BISHOP.” Dacius nodded to Drup and Thildemar, who unlimbered the stretcher. “WE WILL MAKE BETTER TIME IF YOU ALLOW US TO CARRY YOU.”

  A protest rose behind the priest’s eyes, but he didn’t give it voice. Instead, he hobbled over and sat down on the litter. He pointed toward the downward slope. “Follow the southern pass until we clear the mountain.”

  The descent went quickly. The floor of the pass was wide and relatively smooth. Dacius led the way, and the Legionnaires followed, dragging Father Marcus’ stretcher across the ice like a travois. They cut between the towering mountains and emerged on the verge of a steep valley.

  The cut was nearly a league across and bounded by peaks a thousand cubits high. A frozen river ran through its center, and sparse pines dotted the snow near the water. On the far side, a blackened crater the size of a small village marred the pristine landscape. Fresh snow struggled vainly to hide the dark scar, and bright light flashed like a beacon from its center.

  The company stood in silence. They were too far away to make out details, and the object itself was obscured by snow and a recent landslide. But one thing was clear. The Fallen Star was immense.

  They began the climb down the valley wall. The slope here was far more treacherous than the gentle pass. They abandoned the stretcher, and Father Marcus allowed himself to be carried over Dacius’ shoulder. Thildemar led the way, picking out a careful path and testing each rock and ledge to make sure they were stable. The valley was less than five hundred cubits high, but it took most of an hour for them to reach the bottom.