In the forests south of Wildejun, Raomar paced beside the river. The battle raging over Wildejun rumbled like distant thunder, the sight of it blocked by the overarching trees. Not that he was looking back.

  He swept his gaze over his companions, relieved to see them all uninjured and keeping up. As he did, a faint stench caught his nostrils and he hesitated. Glancing over at Ruranith, he jerked his chin toward the river.

  The mage nodded, and slowed his pace.

  “I smell it,” he murmured, and signaled they should move away from the river bank. “I know a trail that might help us travel faster.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention it before now?” Raomar asked.

  “You didn’t think to ask,” the mage shot back, moving swiftly through the nearest bushes, toward the trail. “Now, no more questions. You haven’t the time.”

  Raomar scowled at his departing back, his lips firming in a thin line of angry disapproval, then followed. Beside him, Grunwol shepherded Alessia and her apprentices after the mage. Brianda went last, protecting the rear, and looking relieved to leave the river behind.

  Behind them the Wildejun River gurgled, its waters rippled, becoming a frothing mass as a filthy column of river water rose from its depths. It stank. All the dead things that had sunk to the mud at the river’s bottom seemed to stick to it…or to be sticking out of it, but it didn’t seem to care.

  Strands of rotting weed hung in lank lengths from its back, arms, and head. Eyes the color of coal searched the river bank and saw the still-glowing hollows where Raomar’s feet had touched the shore.

  The column pushed against the current until it came to rest beside the bank. Closer inspection revealed that the glowing tracks led away from the river and its disappointment became defeat. Foiled, it howled its rage.

  In the sky above Wildejun, Walshira heard the howl—and listened to the report in its depth. Releasing more of the power he had drawn, he brought another earth weird into wakefulness. The weird at the temple was busy tracking all those priests who’d been too slow in obeying the High Priest’s orders.

  Its jaws dripped with the blood it had shed, and it was too far away to fulfill his need and too absorbed in slaughter to heed him.

  The ground near the riverbank shuddered and shook free of its covering of fallen leaves. A long, serpentine shape rose out of the leaves, its red eyes gleaming as gravel-laden spittle drooled from its lower lip.

  It hissed something at the creature standing angrily helpless in the water by the bank. At first the creature refused to reply.

  The earth weird sucked the drool back into its mouth, and worked its jaws for a long moment. The creature in the water turned its head to study the opposite side of the riverbank. The earth weird stopped chewing, looked contemplatively at the creature in the water, and spat.

  The semi-solid ball of mud and spit it had created, flew out over the river, stopping only when it met the back of the water weird’s head. The water weird roared with anger, an undirected bellow that reached more than the private ears of its master.

  On a wide trail, a half-mile distant, Alessia froze with fright.

  Arcane power started to coalesce around her, and her youngest apprentice eased carefully away from her, eyes wide. This time, he didn’t attempt to draw strands from the gathering power. Phosphorescent lightning played through it and looked like it wanted a target.

  Varan didn’t want that target to end up being him.

  “Sweet mother of Sophriel,” he whispered, watching his mistress turn to face the roar.

  Ahead of him, Ruranith heard the boy’s soft prayer and pivoted to see what had caused it. His face paled as he observed the wizardess through a magician’s eyes, and saw what kind of magic had answered her call.

  Sweet mother…” he murmured, echoing the boy.

  “What is it?” Raomar turned, also, but Grunwol, looking toward Alessia saw something that didn’t need mage sight to comprehend.

  Colored lightning crackled up and down Alessia’s form, reaching out to strike anything that stood near.

  Grunwol leapt, scooping Xanthia and Sindra away from their mistress’s side.

  Lightning lashed toward him, but stopped short, flickering with frustration as he moved out of range. A frown creased his forehead as his Northman’s instinct didn’t respond. Outside magic usually triggered a rage that only ended when the source of the magic had been destroyed.

  The wizardess didn’t seem to notice him, nor did she appear to notice when Raomar reached a hand toward her. Ruranith, however, slapped his hand away.

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  “Don’t touch her!” he warned, earning a curious look from the kevarag.

  “Why not?”

  Ruranith’s jaw dropped.

  “Are you so mage-blind that you can’t see what even a barbarian observes and understands?”

  “I can see the lightning,” Raomar assured him, “And I do not fear it.”

  “More fool you, then,” Ruranith retorted. “The power she has drawn to herself is wild and untamed, taken from the plane of magic itself.”

  “Sophriel’s gift,” Varan breathed, “But she has never shown any sign of being able to wield it, before.”

  Ruranith shrugged.

  “The Gift chooses its own time and place to manifest,” he said. “Some say it’s the goddess who chooses the who and the when. Others say it’s chance, that the goddess has no more choice than the recipient.”

  “How can that be?” Xanthia squeaked. “How can it be that she cannot give her gift as she pleases?”

  Ruranith shook his head.

  “I’ve heard stories of how Sophriel received her gift,” he said. “They all talk about a mightier power, an elemental god of magic. I have no arguments with this, or any other opinion. The Gift either comes from the goddess, or it does not. Either way, it still comes…but rarely, until now.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Raomar growled. “Choose another time for your lessons. We are hunted.”

  The mage didn’t argue. He pointed at Grunwol and the apprentices, including Brianda in his gesture.

  “You five,” he ordered, “Get behind the wizardess and myself.”

  He turned to Raomar.

  “And you,” he continued, “If your god is too busy to aid us, then you’d better get behind us, as well.”

  The priest-who’d-once-been-a-guildmaster sighed and moved behind the mage.

  “Very well.”

  Together, they watched as the bushes lying between them and the river shook, and Alessia drew on the power that shrouded her, cupping small balls of it in her hands.

  The bushes shook harder, and the ground shuddered beneath their feet. The lightning flowed faster around the wizardess, and her companions took a step away from her, Raomar included.

  The closest bushes lifted from the ground with the sound of tearing roots. They toppled to one side as an earth weird rose from the ground, the fetid odor that accompanied it marking it as one of the Old God’s beasts.

  Alessia shrieked, her words sounding similar to those she’d used before, only fiercer and far less under her control. More arcane words followed, and she flung lightning from her hands.

  The weird roared, rearing away from the lightning’s path. Its tail lashed wildly but it couldn’t avoid the lightning, and two sizzling balls of it struck the weird’s upraised belly. It flickered with lightning for a long moment, making the weird shriek in anger and pain.

  It rolled closer to where Alessia stood, its struggles failing to conceal the noise of more shaking and tearing. The beast had summoned reinforcements. Alessia paid the sound no mind, but drew more lightning to her hands.

  * * *

  Deeper in the forest, the electrifying crackle of Alessia’s magic raised the hairs on the back of Terinor’s neck. The roar of some unnatural creature echoed around him, followed by the eerie shriek of magic’s tongue, older than the language of magic he was used to, but undeniably arcane, and far more powerful.

  Glancing at his two companions, he sighed. The woman ran as sure-footedly as any elf, and the man followed her on soldier’s feet. He might regret rescuing them, and being forced to take a detour from his plans.

  “Keep going,” he ordered, when they hesitated. “They’re in good hands.”

  The soldier…Tarquin…looked like he might argue, even when Terinor let his face harden into the mask he wore when killing. Again, the hair-raising static of magic washed over them, drawing him toward it.

  The sensation was almost irresistible, especially when he knew his daughter was there, and he hesitated. The feel of a hand on his arm made him look down.

  The woman…the priestess? She stood beside him, and he realized he’d stopped.

  “You said we were in a hurry,” she reminded him, but glanced toward the sound. “You said they were in good hands. Are you sure you want to leave them?”

  Wondering how she knew of his concern, and realizing she’d probably read it from his expression, Terinor turned his assassin’s face toward her.

  Again, the roar came.

  The priestess ignored it. She ignored the look on Terinor’s face, too, staring at him unflinchingly as she waited for his answer.

  With an effort, Terinor let his killing expression fall away. With another effort, he pulled himself together, and began moving, again.

  “This way,” he ordered, his voice rough as he led them away from the roars.

  He was still struggling with the decision, when he felt something pass overhead. It momentarily covered them with a shadow of indefinable evil and great power. Terinor shuddered at is passing.

  “Hurry,” he said, fear roughening his voice further.

  Neither the warrior or the priestess argued. They stayed on his heels as he took them further into the forest.

  The Erlindar of Al A’Harimmal are south west, he thought. I can leave these two in their care, and then pursue my daughter’s care.

  Another roar shook the forest, and he touched the stone at his throat, feeling it heat beneath his fingertip. Even though it offered them a faster means of escaping the danger zone, he was reluctant to use it.

  Such power so close to whatever battle draws the gods is unwise, he reasoned, but his thoughts were interrupted by the swelling sense of evil.

  For a moment, he thought it was the previous presence coming back to foul the sky overhead. Stepping off the faint trail he’d been following, he took shelter beside the thick trunk of a tall oak, and silently, his companions followed his example.

  The sense of evil grew stronger until it was beating all around them, and the leaf-scented air of the night forest was ruined by the sudden gusting of a fetid swirling breeze. The base of a whirlwind touched down briefly, kicking up dust on the path they had been following—and then it lifted just as quickly away.

  As it left, the three companions released the breaths they’d been holding, and breathed, again. A sudden backwash of rot-filled air brought tears to their eyes, and they stood, choking on it, until the sound of rushing wind had died totally away.

  “This way,” Terinor croaked, when he could catch his breath. “I know…a shorter path.”

  His hand crept to the stone adorning the gold-laced torc at his throat. It glowed a dull green at his touch, the light escaping from between his fingers.

  The priestess nodded, taking her soldier’s hand and dragging him in Terinor’s wake. Seeing they were following, the elf picked up speed, leaving the fading stink of the whirlwind’s passing, but not quite able to shake the sense of evil its presence had brought.