“My liege?”

  Chentelle lay curled in a ball on the floor, trembling. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she had difficulty breathing. Sulmar was tapping gently on her wrist. He must have broken the contact.

  She forced herself to uncurl, fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied motion. She was Chentelle, not A’stoc. She had never been to the Desecration Fault, never walked through the desolation. Never eaten the flesh of a corpse of an animal. They were A’stoc’s memories, not hers. It hadn’t happened to her.

  She managed to stop crying and bring her breath under control. By the Creator, she had never imagined such horror was possible! And A’stoc had lived through it. She searched for the wizard, and saw him slumped across the table, hiding his face in his hands and crying softly.

  “My liege? Can you speak?”

  “Sulmar,” she said, clutching at the stability of his arm. “I’m all right, Sulmar. At least, I will be soon. Will you help me up?”

  The Tengarian lifted her easily off the floor and set her gently back in her chair. “I was worried for you,” he said. “Almost as soon as the wizard touched you, you cried out in pain. I knocked his hands away from yours, but still you fell to the floor.”

  Chentelle followed Sulmar’s gaze to the slumped figure of the wizard. He was no longer crying, but he still hid his face in his hands.

  “Do not trust him, mistress,” Sulmar said. “He lives without honor.”

  “It was not his fault, Sulmar,” she said, going to the wizard.

  She placed a hand on A’stoc’s shoulder, being careful not to reach out with her Gift. “I am sorry. I did not know that anyone had survived the Desecration.”

  A’stoc looked up, staring past her with bloodshot eyes. “No one did,” he said. “No one did.”

  Chentelle wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him. But his pain was too deep, too powerful. She didn’t know how to help him, so she just sat with him. The silence stretched for long moments.

  “And it was all for nothing,” he said, finally. “So much destruction. So much death. And for what? The Dark One has returned, and we have no magic to oppose him. The great wizards are gone forever, and their knowledge died with them.”

  “What do you mean?” Chentelle asked.

  “The old wizards recorded their spells in rune-writing,” he explained. “A magic script, indecipherable to the untrained. It was part of their paranoia, their jealousy. The Masters guarded their secrets well, especially after the necromancers appeared. And when a wizard dies, his spells die with him. The old Lore books are filled with blank pages. Only a few handwritten documents survive.”

  “But what about the Collegium?” she asked. “The Lore Masters of Tel Adartak-Skysoar?”

  “Fools!” A’stoc said. “And worse than fools. There are no true Masters there, no wizards to rival A’kalendane or A’pon Boemarre. The knowledge is lost. They struggle to relearn the most basic spells. They are children, lost in the wilderness and pretending to be guides. In time, they might find their way home. But if Ill-creatures move in the Realm, then time runs short.”

  “Then we must act now,” Chentelle said. “Don’t you see? The High Bishop wouldn’t send for you if he didn’t have a plan. We must have hope. The Creator will not abandon his Creation.”

  “Hope!” the mage bellowed. “Hope is a road that leads only to despair. The High Bishop does not know what he asks. I am powerless to stop what is happening.”

  “Apparently the High Bishop thinks otherwise,” she said, struggling to keep her frustration in check.

  “That does not change the fact.”

  Was he just going to sit and watch while the world suffered, while the Dark One destroyed Creation? No, Chentelle had to convince him to act.

  “Please, wizard,” she said. “You know what will happen if the Dark One triumphs. More than any man alive, you know the horrors that his victory will bring. You must help us.”

  “No.” He lurched to his feet and staggered one step.

  “If you do not even try,” she said desperately, “then you have already decided the fate of the world.”

  A’stoc started as if she had slapped him. “Enough!” He drained the last of his wine and collapsed onto the bed beside him. “I will think about what you have said,” he mumbled. “But you leave in the morning.”

  The lights began to dim as A’stoc drifted to sleep. Chentelle removed the wizard’s shoes and tucked a thin blanket around him. Then she and Sulmar hurriedly set up their beds for the night. Soon, loud snoring filled the chamber and the glow of the adartak died completely.

  Chentelle’s mind raced. She had to convince A’stoc to answer the High Bishop’s call. But how? She couldn’t force his cooperation. And he had suffered so much. She shuddered at the memory of his pain. No wonder he was bitter, afraid to hope. But he had to help.

  The questions continued, but she had no answers. Finally the exhaustion of the day took its toll, and sleep claimed her.

  She is home, walking among the familiar trees of Lone Valley. Slanted shafts of light penetrate the ceiling of branches, lacing the pathway with bright white patches. The trees whisper to each other, but she can’t understand their words. Something feels wrong; there is a strange presence in the forest.

  The forest moves into darkness. Deep shadows fall between the trees, covering her path. Something is moving just beyond the field of her vision. She whirls, but she sees nothing. Her skin tingles. She can feel it, watching, stalking. The whispers start again. Doom. Doom.

  She runs. The trees close in on her, channeling her down a narrow path. Branches tear at her face and her clothes, but she keeps running.

  She emerges into a black void, empty of trees, empty of light, empty of sound. She stumbles into the clearing, groping her way through the darkness. The shadows are cold. Her skin shivers at their touch. She moves forward, but the void seems to stretch forever.

  Suddenly, cruel laughter echoes in the gloom. A figure flows out of the darkness. A hideous creature with taloned legs and huge wings.

  The demon’s pallid stare paralyzes her. She can only watch in horror as a great clawed fist extends toward her. The hand uncurls, and the broken, lifeless form of a dove falls by her feet.

  Chentelle woke to the sound of her own screaming. Sweat ran down her face and her breathing was fast and heavy.

  There was the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. “Mistress, are you in danger?”

  “It’s all right, Sulmar,” she said. “It was a dream, a dream of evil.” But she knew that it had been a dream of truth. The Ill-creatures knew about her mission.

  Was it morning? It was impossible to tell. The darkness of the cave was absolute. But she felt rested, as if she had slept several hours.

  “A’stoc,” she yelled into the darkness. “Wizard, wake up. They know. The Dark One knows that the High Bishop has sent for you. A’stoc!”

  A muffled voice sounded from the direction of the cot, and dim light filled the chamber. A’stoc lay curled on his bed, clutching his head tightly in his hands.

  “Hel’s Maw,” he grumbled. “Not so loud, girl.”

  Chentelle tossed off her blanket and hurried to his side. “Please, A’stoc, you must go to Norivika. You must!”

  A’stoc rolled over, lowering his feet to the floor. “Aaah, where are my shoes? What did—”

  He stopped suddenly, clutching his arms to his body. Then he stumbled to the kitchen and vomited in the nearest bowl. When he was finished, he slid slowly down the front of the cupboard and sat on the stone floor.

  Chentelle felt a twinge of despair. This was the hope of the world? No, there was more to this man than the drunken spectacle before her. She had felt that last night. She had to figure out how to reach the strength inside the man.

  She wet a cloth and handed it to the mage. “A’stoc, please. So much depends upon you.”

  “Quietly, please,” A’stoc said, pressing the cloth to his face and staggering to his feet. “You have no idea the pain that you cause me.”

  “But, wizard—”

  He silenced her with an upraised hand. “My wits were not so addled last night that I failed to consider your words. I have decided to go to the Holy Land.”

  He was going! “Thank you, wizard,” Chentelle said. “You are truly wise.”

  “Then why do I feel like a fool, elf girl?” he demanded. “And stop calling me wizard. I never earned that title. I have only a fraction of the knowledge my master possessed. I cannot even call upon the Staff’s power.”

  She was tempted to ask him similarly to stop calling her girl, but concluded that issue was pointless. “You can’t use the Staff? Still, the High Bishop must have reason to call for your aid.”

  “The High Bishop has no idea what he asks. I go with you only to show him the truth of our situation.”

  “With me? But I am going home.”

  He looked at her. “I think not,” he said, as he had before. “Consider my inadequacies. Do you think I would ever get there alone?”

  Her mouth dropped open. It was true: this caustic, depressive, drunken caricature of a mage was unlikely to complete any journey of more than an hour, without help.

  A’stoc forced a grim smile. “If I must suffer, so must you. Your task is not done until you get me there.”

  So it seemed. Because if she refused, so would he. And the fate of the world perhaps depended on him.

  She made her decision. “Then we should leave now, wiz—A’stoc. I dreamed that the Ill-creatures know about the High Bishop’s message. They want to stop you from reaching Norivika.”

  “You dreamed it,” he said. “And I suppose all your dreams come true.”

  Chentelle felt the bitterness of his sarcasm. “No,” she said. “But sometimes they do. Sometimes I can feel the truth of a dream. And this dream was true.”

  “Maybe,” A’stoc said. “But we are safe for now. My home is not easy to find. And it is only two days travel to the Barrier.”

  “Then the sooner you leave, the better,” Chentelle said. “Your home was not too difficult for me to find.”

  A’stoc threw the cloth to the ground in disgust. “Enough of your prodding, elf girl. I told you I would go.” He glanced at her. “With you.”

  “With me,” she agreed with resignation. She was committed, too.

  “And me,” Sulmar added. But he did not seem distressed. She realized that his motive differed: he wanted to travel and find adventure, but could do so only in her company. She hoped he did not succeed in finding more than any of them cared for. That winged monster of her dream…

  A’stoc searched for his shoes, finally finding them at the end of the cot. After several tries he managed to slip them on his feet and stand up.

  “Wait here,” he said, working his way slowly down the stairs to the magepool.

  Chentelle moved to the edge of the tier and watched.

  A’stoc’s steps became steadier as he neared the pool. The surface of the well glowed faintly, and the mage stood near its edge for a time, seeming to draw strength from the water. Then he spoke a single word. The water started churning, though not as violently as it had the night before. Mist rose from the pool, taking the shape of two giant, long-fingered hands.

  The mage started chanting, and the hands reached down into the pool. Misty fingers pushed into the water and pulled it apart as if it were solid. A hollow channel formed, reaching down into the depths. Suddenly a shaft of brilliant light exploded from the opening. A wooden staff floated upward inside the light.

  A’stoc gestured, and the staff drifted toward his hand. As soon as his fingers touched the wood, the light died, and the walls of water came crashing together.

  The staff was gnarled like the root of an ancient oak. Magical runes were worked expertly into its surface, carved to blend smoothly with the natural contours of the wood. The tool radiated power, power similar to the magic of the unicorns but far stronger. It pulsed with life.

  This was the Thunderwood Staff. It could be no other.

  A’stoc held the Staff with both hands, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Well, then,” he said. “Let us go see the High Bishop.”

  5

  Aftermath

  Dacius woke to the taste of sand and salt water. He spat, trying to clear his mouth, and pushed himself upright. Pain shot through his right wrist. The world spun and he fell back to the ground.

  His vision contracted into a haze of darkness. No! He had to stay conscious. He bit down hard on the edge of his tongue, using the sharp pain to counteract the ache in his wrist. Blood mixed with the grit in his mouth, but his vision cleared.

  He was on a beach. Deneob was in the sky, casting everything in a reddish hue. Debris from the Otan Stin decorated the shoreline. He remembered kicking off his boots, fighting desperately to stay above the waves. He must have latched on to some timbers and floated out the storm. He rolled carefully onto his back and sat up. Except for his boots, he did not seem to have lost—

  His left hand leaped to his side. Thank the Creator, the vorpal sword hung safely in its scabbard. He had managed to save it from the storm.

  Slowly, Dacius got to his feet. His arm throbbed, and he risked a quick glance. A small, jagged spur of bone poked through the skin just above his wrist. Congealed blood and sand kept the wound from bleeding any more. He laid the wrist against his chest and braced it with his other arm. Now he could travel.

  He weaved his way down the beach, searching for survivors. His balance was off, and it was difficult to make his legs move properly. He shivered in the ocean breeze. It was cold. His skull pounded, and he lifted his hand to his forehead: sweat. He was feverish.

  Flotsam littered the shore. He spotted a patch of color: part of a uniform. He worked his way closer. There were bodies, three of them. Two were sailors; the third wore the green and white of the Inarr Regiment.

  The Legionnaire lay facedown, his head canted at an alarming angle. Dacius knelt in the sand and rolled the body over. Graying hair fell around a face that he had known all his life. Alka! The elf’s eyes stared blankly into the sky.

  Tears ran freely down Dacius’ face as he reached down and closed his friend’s eyes. “Watch for this one, Creator,” he said. “He has served you well.”

  Dacius wanted to stay and bury his friend, but it was impossible. Even if he were capable of the action, his first duty was to find other survivors. He forced himself back to his feet and continued down the beach. The world seemed desolate, lifeless. Clumps of wreckage loomed toward him through a haze of fever. Often, there were bodies mixed with the debris. Some were sailors, and some were Legionnaires, but all were dead. The sand tantalized him with promises of rest, but Dacius kept walking.

  Smoke rose from behind a small cluster of rocks. Someone was waving to him. There were a half-dozen figures, maybe more. Two of them headed toward him. As they neared, Dacius recognized Captain Rone and Thildemar. The old musician appeared unhurt, but Rone had one arm slung in a makeshift splint, and a mass of bruises covered the left side of his face.

  “Lord Gemine,” Thildemar said, “my heart is gladdened to see you alive.”

  Something within Dacius relaxed at the sight of the elves. The world started to spin, and he dropped to his knees in the sand. “Alka,” he said. “My friend—dead.”

  “By the Creator!” Rone cried. “Be damned that hideous creature! Where is he?”

  Dacius gestured back. “I saw him. He—” But he could not continue. He fell forward.

  Arms wrapped about his shoulders and a slim hand pressed against his forehead. “He is hot with fever,” Thildemar said.

  The captain shouted instructions, and more elves appeared. Dacius was soon being carried gently toward the shelter of the rocks. A Legionnaire was carefully feeding deadwood into the fire, using his elven Lore to prepare the wet timbers for the flame. The elves laid Dacius beside the fire and covered him with a heavy cloak.

  Thildemar poured water over Dacius’ wrist, cleaning the wound. “This needs to be set. Prepare yourself. There will be a great deal of pain.”

  Someone pushed a thick layer of cloth into Dacius’s mouth. He bit down hard while Thildemar pulled and twisted his wrist. Bones ground against each other, and Dacius screamed. Pain shot through his arm, burning, throbbing, piercing. When the tide of darkness washed across his vision, heralding unconsciousness, he welcomed the relief.

  The faces of Thildemar and Captain Rone appeared above him. “Lord Gemine,” Thildemar said, “are you rational?”

  Dacius took a moment to consider. He was exhausted, feverish, probably in shock. But he did not seem to be delirious. His wrist was strapped to his chest. It ached severely, but the pain was manageable. “Yes,” he replied evenly.

  The old elf smiled. “Good.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Only a short while,” the elf replied. “Just long enough to splint your arm. Now, if you are able, then as the ranking Legion officer present command falls to you.”

  “Me?” Dacius asked. “What about you?” Then he remembered what Alka had told him about Thildemar. “Or, Captain Rone?”

  “I’m no Legion Lord,” Rone said. “Besides, how could I ask men to follow my lead, when my last decision was so disastrous? Good men died for my arrogance. And I lost the finest ship I’ve ever sailed.”

  Thildemar placed a comforting hand on the captain’s shoulder. “The blame is not yours alone, captain. You based your decision on sound judgment of these waters. Had the storm been a natural one, your skill would have seen us through. It was the Ill-creature’s magic that destroyed your vessel, and you had no way of anticipating that danger.”

  Captain Rone nodded at Thildemar’s words, but the tension remained in his posture and his voice. “Nevertheless, this burden is not mine.”

  “All right,” Dacius said, “I accept the command, for now. What is our situation?”