Father Marcus accepted his crutches from Gerruth and stood gratefully erect on the level ground. But his eyes tracked the position of the suns nervously. His conclusion was obvious in his manner: the descent had taken too long. It would be night before they reached the Fallen Star.

  The High Bishop headed across the valley floor, covering ground steadily in long, slow swings. The company followed, stretching their strides over the flat terrain. They made excellent progress, but even so Deneob was hardly a sliver above the mountains when they reached the river.

  The stream was completely frozen, as solid as rock beneath their feet but far more slippery. Chentelle smiled with delight and kicked herself onto the ice. Her leatherbark soles slid easily across the surface, then caught slightly as her momentum ebbed. She pushed off at an angle and continued across. It was just like skating on the winter ponds back home.

  The others seemed far less comfortable. Apparently water seldom froze in the southern forests. Still, they managed the crossing well enough, and soon they were gathered on the far side. They pressed through the final patch of trees and stared over the lip of the crater.

  The Fallen Star was half-buried by rock and snow, but what was visible gleamed coldly in the twilight. It was solid metal, shaped into strange curves and angles that couldn’t be natural; they jarred the eye harshly. A thousand cubits of broken ground lay between them and the Star, but it was so large that it seemed close enough to touch.

  “BEWARE!” Dacius’ sword slid from its sheath. The metal blade glowed softly in the fading light, as did the armor and shield of A’kalendane.

  A dark shape detached itself from the shadows below the Fallen Star. It walked out onto the snow and halted, black wings twitching outward into a familiar silhouette. Throm.

  “SPREAD OUT. FATHER MARCUS, STAY BEHIND US. A’STOC, ARE YOU READY?”

  “I am.” A’stoc walked forward, planting the Staff firmly in the snow with each step. “Keep your men behind me, Lord Gemine. This trial is mine.”

  They made their way across the crater, the wizard in the lead and the others following cautiously behind. The Ill-creature waited motionlessly as they approached.

  When A’stoc was thirty cubits away, he lifted the Staff and called forth the Earthpower. Green flame blazed along the length of the wood.

  SO, YOU HAVE BROUGHT YOUR TRINKETS DIRECTLY TO ME. I AM GRATEFUL. I SHALL GRANT YOU A MERCIFUL DEATH IF YOU SURRENDER THEM NOW.

  “Your jests are tiresome,” A’stoc said. “As is your existence. The time has come to end them both.”

  SUCH BRAVADO! AND YET YOU HESITATE. CAN IT BE THAT YOU REMEMBER OUR LAST BATTLE? THERE IS NO POOL OF EARTHPOWER TO SAVE YOU NOW, LITTLE APPRENTICE. I WILL PULL THE THUNDERWOOD FROM YOUR IMPOTENT FINGERS AND USE IT TO CRACK OPEN THIS METAL EGG. THEN THE DARK ONE HIMSELF WILL TREMBLE BEFORE ME. The Ill-creature took a lumbering step forward, and lightning crackled between his talons. COME FORWARD, WIZARDLING, AND I WILL SHOW YOU THE MEANING OF DEATH.

  A’stoc stepped forward, Thunderwood Staff raised high above his head. As his foot came down, a glowing iron rod burst upward from beneath the snow. It struck the wizard full in the chest, slamming him backward in an explosion of power. A’stoc flew a dozen cubits through the air and landed limply in the snow. The Staff slipped from his hand and fell near his side.

  “A’stoc!” Chentelle bolted to the wizard’s side. Her Gift reached out to him instinctively, searching for life but afraid of what she might find. Praise the Creator! He was alive. The Earthpower had shielded him from much of the blow. He had a mild concussion, but he was unhurt otherwise.

  Dacius launched himself forward. His vorpal blade sliced into the demonspawn before it could climb free of its hiding hole. The Ill-creature’s head tumbled from its neck and dropped to the snow in a shower of ash.

  Four more shapes climbed from ambush sites around the company—Tenebrites, not demonspawn. Their insect legs danced lightly across the surface of the snow.

  Suddenly, Father Marcus screamed and fell to the ground. He clutched his skull with both hands and writhed with uncontrollable convulsions.

  HA HA HA HA HA. SUCH EVIL YOU HOLD, PRIEST OF WEAKNESS. HOW SIMPLE TO SET IT FREE, TO LET IT RUN LOOSE IN YOUR FEEBLE SOUL. PERHAPS YOU WILL THANK ME LATER, IF I LET YOU LIVE.

  Dacius charged the demon, his armor gleaming like the sun. “GUARD THE HIGH BISHOP. THROM IS MINE.”

  Lightning flashed from Throm’s claws, crackling across the snow to obliterate the Legionnaire. But Dacius caught the blast on his shield. The mystic metal flashed blindingly as power transferred to his sword. A trail of blue flame arced from the blade as it cleaved through the Ill-creature’s outstretched wrist.

  AAAAHHHHH! Throm staggered backward, staring at the burning stump of its arm. Its wings flailed wildly, and a massively taloned foot shot out at the human lord. Dacius again took the blow on his shield, but the impact drove him a dozen steps backward. YOU WILL SUFFER FOR THAT, LITTLE MORTAL. I WILL RIP YOUR SOUL TO SHREDS AND FEED IT TO THE VIKHORS.

  Steel clanged against steel just beyond Chentelle’s head. She crouched over A’stoc’s body, trying to shield it with her own.

  Sulmar turned aside the Tenebrite’s thrust and shifted his weight into a lunging counter. But the snow slowed his movements and the shadow knight danced easily out of the way.

  The Ill-creature circled and struck again, aiming not at Sulmar but at the fallen form of the wizard. Again, Sulmar was forced to parry the strike. Metal rang sharply and power leeched from Sulmar’s blade into the Tenebrite’s.

  “Mistress, run!” The Tengarian reached down and grabbed A’stoc’s collar. Parrying desperately, he dragged the wizard back toward the company. He managed the retreat, but it cost him dearly. By the time he deposited A’stoc’s form next to Father Marcus’, his vorpal blade barely glowed at all.

  But now the companions could shield each other. The Tenebrite attacking Sulmar was forced to yield ground as Thildemar thrust toward his exposed flank.

  The defenders arrayed themselves in a tight perimeter, coordinating their tactics. They avoided direct confrontation whenever possible, using flank attacks and leg cuts to fend off the Tenebrites.

  But the shadow knights had the advantage of maneuverability. They circled endlessly, skittering easily over the crust of snow that hampered Sulmar and the elves. When they attacked, the thrusts came unpredictably from any or all directions. They struck at A’stoc and Father Marcus whenever possible, forcing a parry that served only to strengthen the Ill-creatures.

  IT IS OVER, LITTLE MORTALS. YOUR DEATHS ARE HERE. Throm’s flesh was a crisscross of flaming blue cuts. Dark ash poured from its wounds like blood. But triumph echoed maliciously in its mental voice. Lightning flashed from the demon’s remaining claw, striking not at Dacius, but at a large boulder near his feet. The stone shattered, blasting the Legionnaire with a thousand fragments.

  Dacius’ armor was scored and dented in a dozen places. It held up to the assault, but the shrapnel battered him mercilessly. He staggered backward, and his foot slipped on a patch of ice. He fell to his knees, and his shield dropped momentarily out of position.

  Throm darted forward. The Ill-creature’s claw crackled through the air, catching the human’s head cleanly. A clap of thunder echoed through the valley, and Dacius’ helmet tumbled through the air, split down the side with a jagged tear.

  Dacius crumpled to the snow, his eyes staring blankly into the air and blood trailing from his ear.

  HA HA HA HA HA. SURRENDER, GNATS. YOUR LEADERS HAVE FALLEN. THE BATTLE IS OVER.

  “No!” Gerruth threw himself to the ground, rolling across the snow and sliding under the belly of a Tenebrite. His move caught the Ill-creature by surprise, and his vorpal blade thrust cleanly into its abdomen. The Tenebrite vanished in a flash of dust.

  But Gerruth was exposed. Another shadow knight darted forward. A sharp claw drove through the Legionnaire’s side, pinning him to the ground. A bloodred sword sliced downward in a vicious arc.

  Thildemar jumped forward, deflecting the cut with a combat baton. His vorpal blade slashed in a lightning counter that neatly decapitated the Ill-creature.

  A gaping hole opened in the Tenebrites’ formation. Drup lunged forward, engaging one of the remaining Ill-creatures.

  Sulmar attacked the other, thrusting into its exposed chest, and then slicing through the legs of Drup’s foe on the backswing.

  The young Legionnaire waited until the Ill-creature fell, and then drove his blade into the exposed side. The last of the Tenebrites dissolved into ash.

  SO, THE GNATS HAVE STINGS. NO MATTER. NONE OF YOU HAS THE POWER TO HARM ME.

  Agony ripped through Chentelle’s mind. Her brain was on fire! She clapped her hands to her head. The pain was incredible. A whimper escaped from her throat, and she heard an answering cry from one of the Legionnaires.

  Throm stalked slowly toward them, lightning crackling around his ebony skin. GOOD RIDDANCE, FOOLS! YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE CHALLENGED YOUR MASTERS. I WILL AAAAAHHHHH!!!

  Steel erupted from the demon’s heart. Blue flame shot outward, enveloping the Ill-creature even as he fell.

  Dacius had recovered, and run the monster through from behind. Now the Legionnaire lurched forward, pulled off balance by the demon’s weight. He landed heavily in the snow, vorpal sword still locked in the grip of his mystic gauntlet.

  By the Creator! Chentelle shook her head, trying to clear the memory of pain. Was it really over? She glanced around the crater. A’stoc groaned softly as his awareness returned. Drup moved to Dacius’ side, helping the lord to stand. Father Marcus still writhed on the ground, and Gerruth lay in a growing pool of his own blood. The vorpal blades were dark. There were no more enemies, but had they won or lost?

  A’stoc stumbled across the snow until he reached the Staff. His hands closed around the Thunderwood, and his posture steadied immediately. His eyes remained glazed and unfocused, but he walked back to the others with slow, firm strides.

  Chentelle put a hand on Marcus’s brow. The skin was hot and strangely dry. She reached out with her Gift, trying to comfort him.

  Her arm jerked backward, burning as if she had plunged it into a flame. Nausea flooded through her, carried on a wave of ugliness beyond imagining. She saw a world swallowed by metal and dark glass. Not a cubit of grass or forest remained. Even the oceans were covered with islands of desecration. Noxious fumes choked the air, killing everything that flew or breathed. People moved aimlessly through strange cities of metal cliffs and black roads. There was no music in their world, no love, no life.

  Chentelle fought down the urge to vomit. It was horrible! How could the Creator allow such a world? But she knew the answer. This was the knowledge of the Fallen Star, knowledge from beyond the Creation. The world she glimpsed had never known the Creator’s touch.

  And now that could happen to Infinitera! Fractured images coalesced in her mind: Father Marcus sitting on a mighty throne, an army of twisted mechanisms swarming through the Realm like steel insects, mountains being shaped like clay by ribbons of cold light. It was a vision of the future. Father Marcus spoke, and his voice echoed around the world like that of the Creator Himself. The Heresiarchs of the goblins knelt in reverence, surrendering to the power of the High Bishop’s faith. Gnomes and dwarves came together in unity, and giants and trolls were restored to the world. The Dark One was bound in chains of light and banished forever beyond the Abyss.

  The vision continued. Death became unnecessary. The Creation was made whole again, and the people praised Marcus in joyful song. He let no being suffer or know need. Hunger, pain, illness, strife, all vanished in the new Creation. A vast city rose from the plain, providing its inhabitants with every need and luxury. It was a place of perfect peace and perfect safety. Anything wild or dangerous was locked away behind impenetrable bands of force. The people spent eons in rest and contemplation, surrendering their world piece by piece to the cold metal walls.

  Chentelle shuddered. She knew that she had felt only the tiniest part of what ran through the High Bishop. Strangely, that thought brought her hope—she had been shielded from deeper contact by Father Marcus himself. The priest had rejected her touch, protecting her from the evil he suffered. That meant that he wasn’t lost entirely; he still struggled for control.

  Chentelle called upon her Gift again, weaving a quiet song around the High Bishop. She didn’t try to force her magic into his mind; she couldn’t fight the raw power of the evil in his mind. Instead, she called to his body. Her enchantment opened the priest’s senses to the music of Creation. Life sang to them from the frozen peaks: fish swimming deep under the icy river, tall pines resonating strength and resilience. Chentelle worked the music into Marcus’ flesh, filling him slowly with harmony and truth.

  The priest’s mind seethed with conflict, torn between hymns of glory and the quiet music of Creation. But his faith was strong. His spirit swelled in answer to Chentelle’s song, answering it with love and joy and communion. The balance shifted, and the evil slowly surrendered its hold. Marcus’ body twitched in one final spasm. Then his eyes fluttered open and his limbs relaxed.

  Chentelle helped the priest to stand. “Are you all right?” The question was rhetorical; she knew his condition was desperately mixed.

  “I think so. Thanks to you.” Marcus squeezed her hand softly. “The Creator was generous when he sent you to us.”

  Chentelle shrugged off the compliment. “You’re the one we need, now. Are you strong enough to heal? A’stoc’s concussion isn’t serious, but Gerruth and Dacius might be badly hurt.”

  Marcus took a slow, deep breath. “Where are they?”

  Dacius had regained his feet. The human still clutched his vorpal sword in one hand, while the other held the ruined remains of his shield. Blood trickled from the ruin of his left ear, matting in the lighter red of his hair and beard. He dragged himself through the snow with stifflegged steps, but his deep blue eyes were clear. He waved them away before they had taken two steps. “I’ll keep! See to Gerruth first!”

  The elf lay where he had fallen, conscious but deep in shock. The Tenebrite’s claw had driven entirely through his body. Steam rose from the jagged tear. Thildemar had stanched the wound, but not before a large pool of bile and blood had stained the ice.

  “Blessed Creator.” Marcus dropped to his knees beside the Legionnaire. His eyes closed in concentration and he started to chant. The peace of sanctuary glowed into life around him.

  But something was wrong. Marcus’ chant faltered, and strain laced his voice. The shimmering aura flickered and died. “No! Creator, we follow your wisdom and walk on your path. Give me the strength for this.”

  Father Marcus began his chant again. Once more, the strain told in his voice, but this time he didn’t falter. The rhythm of the meditation was perfect, the meter exact. It made no difference. The aura was even fainter this time, and it vanished more quickly.

  The priest continued his meditation, but it was no use. There was no harmony in his soul. The evil in his mind was contained, but it was not conquered. He was cut off from the power of the Holy Order. After several minutes, he broke off his song. There were tears in his eyes as he met Gerruth’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” the Legionnaire said softly. “Just don’t let them win.”

  “I won’t.” Father Marcus pulled out the Sphere of Ohnn and discarded the rest of his pack into the snow. He turned to look at A’stoc. “You and I will make the final journey alone.”

  The wizard glanced over his shoulder. The gleaming metal of the Fallen Star lay less than fifty cubits away. “So far?”

  “Do not be dense!” the High Bishop snapped. “The quest is not done. We must travel inside the Star to destroy it.”

  “Inside?” Chentelle asked. “You mean it’s hollow?”

  “Of course it’s hollow!” Father Marcus spun to face her. His face twisted into a sneer, but the expression disappeared almost immediately. “I’m sorry, Chentelle. You did not deserve that. None of you deserve anything but praise. Without you, the quest could never have come so far. But the rest of the journey is for A’stoc and me alone.”

  “I do not agree,” Dacius said. The human swayed slightly on his feet, but his voice was firm. “Who knows what dangers lurk inside the metal. You should not go unprotected. Thildemar can stay to guard Gerruth. The rest of us should go with you.”

  “No!” The protest came from both Gerruth and Father Marcus.

  “No one comes with us,” the holy man insisted. “The danger that awaits is the danger of knowledge. No one must learn the secrets of the Fallen Star, not even you.”

  Chentelle looked back and forth between A’stoc and the priest. The humans stood in nearly identical postures. Iron determination straightened their spines, but their eyes were hollow. Cold certainty ran through her. They weren’t coming back. “No! Father Marcus, this is wrong.”

  The priest’s eyes bore into her. “Do you speak with your Gift?”

  Should she lie? He might listen if she gave her words the weight of prophecy. “I speak from my heart. Remember your own words. Our hope lies in love, in harmony and cooperation, not solitude and desperation. We have to stay together. You were never meant to make this trip alone.”

  “Listen to Chentelle,” Dacius said. “Her wisdom has never led us astray before.”

  Anger flashed behind the priest’s eyes, but it quickly subsided. “Very well, but I must have your oath. Not one word will be spoken of what you see or learn, not to comrades, not to family, not even among yourselves. The knowledge must vanish forever. Swear it!”

  One by one, Father Marcus bound them to the oath. He bypassed Gerruth initially, but the Legionnaire growled in protest.