Caleb watched in utter disbelief as they wrestled back and forth, kicking up chunks of sod and scattering blankets and other items all over the campsite. Rennor was clearly getting the worst of it, grunting and gasping from the effects of a hardened soldier's wiry strength. Then Soren barely missed slicing into the man with a sweep of his blade, and Caleb shot to his feet.

"Stop, stop!" he bellowed, uselessly in English. He dived in and tried to separate them without being slashed or impaled himself, and eventually seized the hilt of Soren's sword.

Caleb stared into the older man's contorted face. "Stop this madness!" he shouted in the correct language, and to his surprise it worked. Soren withdrew and jumped to a stand, still ready for more, it seemed, while Rennor lay groaning at their feet.

A sudden fury overwhelmed Caleb, sweeping away any pretense of subservience. "Soren, you are a fool, and the most hot-headed and stubborn man I've ever met! If you won't help me, and keep a tight rein on that temper of yours, then go back to Ekendore!" he cried, swinging his arm east. "I have no use for anyone who places so little value on another man's life."

Soren stood fast, weapon in hand, chest heaving. His face writhed in almost unbearable indecision. Caleb felt sure he would walk over to his horse and ride off into the night, never to return. Rennor came to a slow stand, rubbing his limbs; firelight glistened off the sweat on his forehead.

They stood facing each other, a standoff which Caleb feared might erupt at any second and destroy his one chance of reaching Graxmoar. Then, before Caleb could stop him, Warren walked straight up to Soren and hugged him with all his might.

The change in the weathered old face was immediate-from anger to helplessness. In other circ.u.mstances Caleb would have laughed. Here was a man fully dedicated to the Oath, and ready in an instant to avenge it with his life; yet the guileless affection of a child rendered him powerless.

Soren placed a tentative hand on Warren's tousled locks. "Garda has often said my anger makes a fool of me. But she also knows when it's justified." He shot a piercing stare at Caleb. "In my eyes, at this moment, you are no longer worthy to be a Raen. But to reject or abandon you out here would only repeat my father's mistake. Whatever fate awaits Ada, good or evil, one day you will stand before the Council again to be Judged."

Caleb was sorely tempted to say he had already seen plenty of that sort of thing. "Fair enough. But know this: I plan to reach Graxmoar before then, on my own if I have to ... "

His voice faltered. He had never told anyone about Warren's short lifespan, not even Telai. Now the time had come. But it surprised him how difficult it was, as if the mere act of saying it out loud would seal the boy's fate.

"He's got less than ten years to live, Soren. It's the only hope I've got."

A long silence pa.s.sed. Soren gently detached himself from the boy, and sheathed his sword.

Caleb drew a breath, the first one in minutes, as it seemed. "You'll stay with us?"

It was more a plea than a question. Yet Soren showed no trace of remorse or sympathy. "For now. I'll make no more accusations, ask no more questions until I bring what we discover at Graxmoar to the Overseer. Just don't count on her being any more forgiving than I am!"

He turned to organize the belongings scattered by the fight, clearly finished with the discussion. A keen sense of loss settled into Caleb's heart, and he wondered if he would ever share the old man's caustic friendship again.

18.

Tnestiri There is nothing more humbling than the moment you discover how fragile your life is, or how fleeting.

- Urman of Old CHILLED DROPS of rain spattered on the fire's dead ashes, and the members of the little party came to life.

Caleb wrapped his coat tight as they rode cheerlessly to the west. He soon realized that Soren was right: his dark mood the night before had been no coincidence. Despair crept across the fields and wormed its way into his thoughts, every pa.s.sing mile longer than the one before.

Soren rode in silence, as if in a hopeless venture, while Warren sat hunched, his head bowed. Only Rennor seemed unaffected, even eager to face the mounting threat of Gur'alyreiv. Caleb felt as though he had lost every friend he ever had-which might not be far from the truth, he reflected sadly.

He peered through the mist, dreading the first sign of the forest. Suddenly he had trouble believing his own eyes. What he had taken for distant, pine-clad hills were not hills at all, but a towering wall of trees running north and south into the rain-shrouded distance. The fields and scattered beeches ended, and the entire party came to a halt-not of their own free will, but in response to a palpable resistance, as if one more step would shred their last hope.

A cold sweat broke out on their faces. Their horses moved about skittishly, and Caleb barely had the presence of mind to control his own.

But there was no turning back, not without a fight at least. Gripping the reins, Soren urged his horse forward with a firm kick. Tellahur was a battle-hardened horse, loyal to her master for many years, but this was much to ask. She neighed and snorted in protest, rearing or bucking high in an attempt to unseat her rider. Soren clamped his knees and held on tight.

Finally, step after painful step, both man and horse reached the forest edge. He stopped and turned to face the others, a dark gray form suddenly composed and calm between the giant roots of the trees. Tellahur tossed her head, calm and obedient.

Soren had already advised the others to attempt the barrier one at a time, and after a brief hesitation, Rennor moved forward. It was soon obvious that he was not as experienced a rider as the Master Raen. The horse kept turning sharply to canter away from the forest, forcing Rennor to bring it to an awkward stop with a hard jerk on the reins. Indeed, he appeared to have more trouble with his horse than he did Gur'alyreiv. But he made progress-excruciatingly slow progress-until at last he waited beside Soren, leaning heavily on the saddle.

Caleb Stenger sat alone. His companions beckoned, but there was no sound, no voices. It was as if they had stepped into another time and place. He waited, and still waited, while Warren trembled under the strong grip of his arms.

At last he dug in his heels and started forward. Though he was a better horseman than Rennor, he soon discovered an unforeseen difficulty: the packhorse. With both animals bent on escape Caleb could barely make any progress, a slow, painful succession of gains and losses like a weary man up a hill of sand. The packhorse's lead rope kept twisting around, threatening to unseat him, or pulled back so hard that his own horse reared high, whinnying loudly. All the while the power of Gur'alyreiv strengthened, a fear so penetrating that he felt sure, even if he turned and fled far away, that he would never be completely free of it again.

Warren, fortunately, had the sense to hang on tight even amid his screams, for his father had no arms to spare. Only the sight of his friends, unheard yet beckoning in encouragement, kept Caleb from abandoning the struggle. Soon his breath came in ragged rasps, and his joints and muscles ached from the continual strain. The pain of his struggle mounted higher, and yet higher-until right before the edge of the woods both horses reared back, and he nearly lost everything: his seat, his son, and his courage.

An arm reached out of nowhere and s.n.a.t.c.hed the lead rope from his hands. Caleb glanced beside him. The Master Raen, his teeth clenched and the cords of his neck standing out, fought to control both Tellahur and the packhorse. Caleb, exhausted, used what strength he had left to force his own horse over the remaining distance.

Then it was over. The fear and despair vanished, a change so abrupt that it brought a pounding ache to his head. Sound returned; he heard his companions' voices, and the soft neigh of their horses. Warren wept in the sudden relief. Caleb's laboring heart slowed, and he flexed his aching hands.

He exchanged glances with Soren, who sat recovering from the effort. "You weren't kidding, were you?" Caleb said. He wrapped his arms about his son. "It's all right now, Warren. It's over."

Rennor wore a curious, thoughtful expression. "Is he all right?"

"I think so. But I sure hope we won't have to go through that again on the other side."

Soren wore a puzzled look as he gazed out over the open fields. "I don't know. No one has ever survived a return journey to say. Your chief difficulty was with the packhorse-which I should have thought of ahead of time, by the way."

"Forget it, I didn't think of it either. But it looks like Rennor's story is pretty accurate, at least so far."

"Perhaps," Soren said. "But we should travel as far away from this as we can today."

They rode off at once. The light of the somber sky, and all sound of wind and rain, soon faded behind them. The trees towered over their heads like living monoliths in an ancient hall, the first of their branches far above, monstrous in the gloom. Caleb felt his nape p.r.i.c.kle. He could not shake a suspicion that they were intruding upon a vast, ancient conclave, a realm of voiceless G.o.ds determining the fate of these puny mortals.

Yet what unnerved him the most was his son. Warren kept turning his head from side to side, peering intensely into each tree as if reading secrets from deep inside. Soren noticed it as well, his suspicion obvious as he glanced back now and then. Caleb soon told Warren to stop.

There was no undergrowth to speak of, and they made decent progress as the day wore on. The rain gradually tapered off, until evening fell with a darkness so sudden and complete as to squelch all thoughts of riding any farther. A wealth of huge pine cones, some bigger than a man's head, provided easy kindling for a fire. They piled on a ready supply of dead branches to drive away the murk and the damp.

The crackle and snap of bright flames cheered them, but Warren remained persistent in his fascination with the trees. Again and again he would amble over to one of the ma.s.sive trunks to resume his odd behavior, and each time Caleb sharply ordered him back to the fire. Soren ignored it, perhaps deliberately so. They ate their meal in silence, the bitter fight of the previous evening hanging over them like a cloud; Rennor sat away from the others, sullen and unresponsive. Afterward they let the fire burn low.

As the lonely calls of a distant owl echoed through the woods, Caleb sank into a troubled sleep. He dreamed again, but this time it had nothing to do with Warren or the ship. Indistinct at first, in time the images sharpened, and he saw what he might have expected, trees. But they undulated back and forth, a bizarre, hypnotic movement like the masts of giant ships riding vast swells in the ocean. They slowed, and slowed still further, until all motion ceased.

At the base of a tree, dwarfed to almost nothingness by its size, a man lifted his arms as if in supplication. The towering monolith before it began to shrink, needles and branches and bristling cones retreating through the countless years. Roots like the limbs of giants sank into the earth and vanished. Soon the tree stood no higher than a tall house, then a healthy sapling, then a seedling.

A piercing scream rent the night as the last curled frond sank into the soil.

"Caleb Stenger-d.a.m.n your cursed dreams!"

He opened his yes. Soren crouched near, his age-lined skin and long white hair reddened by the nearby light of coals; resinous smoke curled up from a few large cones and pieces of bark he had thrown on the fire. Warren sat to one side, staring at his father as if he were a madman.

Caleb sat up and ran a hand over his sweat-soaked face. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

Soren studied him. "Perhaps we should have waited a little longer before attempting this."

A sudden flame drove away the dark, restoring Caleb's wits. "I'll be all right."

The snap of a twig caught their attention. Rennor was walking toward the firelight, carrying a small satchel in one hand and hoisting his pants up with the other. He stopped short at the others staring at him.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Soren answered slowly. "Where were you?"

Rennor threw down the satchel next to his other belongings. "I don't believe this. I can't even s.h.i.t without your questioning my motives!" He sank to the ground and flung the blankets over himself, turning his back.

Soren shrugged. "We'll start first light," he said to Caleb. "Get more sleep, if you can-we've got a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

"Gur'alyreiv again?"

"Maybe. I'd rather we put this forest at our backs as soon as possible."

Caleb nodded, and laid back down. The last thing he saw was Soren sitting alert near the fire, the yellow flames dancing in his eyes.

No further visions disturbed his sleep until Soren woke him just before dawn. The momentary compa.s.sion the old Raen had displayed during the night was gone, his expression like stone, implacable. Warren showed no trace of his previous behavior. Caleb tried to put it out of his mind, telling himself that he was a victim of his own imagination.

By the time the day was in full swing the rain had started again, heavier this time. The huge limbs and spreading boughs gathered it into thick, icy drops that plunged down splattering onto their heads as they rode. Within hours all their belongings were soaked, and the incessant plop and smack of these little missiles did nothing to improve their tempers.

Caleb was happy to let the more experienced Raen lead the way, for it was difficult to navigate in the rain and rising mist. The river to the south might have helped guide them, had not the huge tree roots made pa.s.sage along its winding banks nearly impossible. Before long it turned sharply to the north, forcing them to ride well out of their way. Soren kept his cool, however, mentioning that the river eventually fed One'en, the lake which surrounded Graxmoar.

A few hours later, the swollen waters turned west again. Chilled and wearied from long hours riding in the rain, they made camp while a few hours of daylight remained. Caleb knew they never would have reached the other side of the forest by nightfall. To their relief the rain stopped, but no effort could evoke a flame from the stubborn fuel at hand.

Caleb fretted as he laid out his blankets over the cold ground. Suddenly he jumped up laughing, startling the others.

"Of course! What a fool I've been-ever since Udan. We don't need a fire. Give me that pot of stew Rennor bought in Enili, Soren. We deserve a feast tonight."

"What nonsense is this?" Soren barked.

"More Earth magic. Stop gaping, and get the stew."

Soren shook his head but obeyed, and brought out a large sealed crock of venison stew. It was kept fresh by a method invented by the seafarers of Trethrealm, an art the Adaiani had yet to master: a rare and expensive item. They had been saving it for a really cold night, which Soren testily remarked would be colder than this one.

He held the crock in his hands, his eyebrows raised in cynical expectation, then noticed Caleb fumbling with the laser. "You have lost your senses!" Rennor, slowly rising to his feet, stared as though equally shocked at the sight.

Caleb waved a hand to dismiss his fears. "Just listen. I'll be able to heat it with this thing. Set the pot there on the ground, and move away a little."

Soren paused, then with a growl stepped forward and placed the crock on the ground. "If you are rash enough to use your magic in this place," he said with a quick gesture at the trees, "then I hope that whatever forces dwell in these forsaken woods will know I am not responsible!"

Now it was Caleb's turn to hesitate. He looked at Rennor for rea.s.surance, but the man was still staring at the laser. He finally noticed Caleb's attention and snapped out of his trance.

"What's your problem?" Caleb asked.

"Er-nothing."

"Any objections?"

Rennor glanced at Soren. "I don't think I'm at liberty to voice an opinion."

Caleb grunted softly, unimpressed. He resumed his task, making a few more adjustments on the laser. Then he took careful aim at the pot where it rested on the ground, and fired.

Soren waited. "Nothing's happening. Your magic fails."

"No," Caleb said, "only your patience. Keep still, and watch."

Without warning the lid popped off with a bang and shot spinning into the gloom overhead. Rennor gasped and fell back, his face peppered with hot stew. Soren leaped for cover, and Warren jumped a foot from the ground where he sat.

"Um ... sorry," Caleb said. "I suppose I should have loosened the seal first."

Soren sat ten feet away, gravy dripping off the end of his nose. "You suppose correctly!"

"I said I was sorry. Are you hurt?"

But the old Raen did not answer. Slowly he rose to his feet, eyes searching aimlessly.

"What in Ada's the matter with you?" Caleb asked.

Soren gripped the hilt of his sword. He looked at Rennor, then at Caleb. "Don't you feel it?"

Caleb glanced around at the trees. "Feel what? Gur'alyreiv again?"

Soren was staring at the ground under his feet now, as if it might open up and swallow him. Rennor, oblivious of the bits of stew still left on his face, steadied himself against a nearby tree. Just when Caleb opened his mouth to demand an explanation, the ground beneath his feet began to quiver.

He pulled Warren to his side and gripped the laser, ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Soren drew his Fetra. But there was nothing visible to defend themselves against, and they stood helpless. Soren returned Caleb's stare with a clear message: he had overstepped his bounds, and now they would pay for his folly.

The tremors grew. "Let's get out of here!" Caleb yelled.

Forty feet away a geyser of soil blew into the air. The shock of it traveled under their feet like a wave. The company stood transfixed, while the horses hauled back on the ropes, screaming. Another quake rocked the earth. As the debris from the explosion fell back down, the ground beneath it began to heave and spill over. Soren gripped his sword, while Rennor backed off, weaponless. Warren clenched his father's coat in his fists.

The erupting mound gained height, and began to take shape. At first no more than a haphazard melee of stone and soil, as they watched the ma.s.s drew inward, compacting until it formed the unmistakable shape of a giant hand.

Yet it barely resembled anything made of flesh and bone. Hard knuckles and short, malformed fingers gripped the earth like a vise. Another hand appeared, and a head rose up so covered in falling dirt and rock that its features were difficult to make out. Then with a mighty heave, the creature emerged from the hole and rose to a stand, its squat head nearly twenty feet above the ground.

It was made entirely of soil and stone. It towered above them, lumps of clay or strands of pebble-strewn dirt falling from its ma.s.sive body. Trailing ends of roots dangled out at odd angles like the underside of an uprooted tree. Despite a vague suggestion of rock for bone, soil for sinew, its body was so roughly formed that it seemed to have gotten its arms and legs by freak chance rather than design. Only its head still shifted and trembled, as if struggling to complete its transformation to human form. A ragged slit like a mouth appeared, and a pair of rough, deep holes beneath stony brows like black pits of sorrow. Despite his fear and awe, Caleb once again experienced a strange, familiar pity, like an ancient tragedy that somehow tied the fate of this creature to his own.

Its change now complete, it stood without the slightest motion, as if given birth by the guts of the planet to keep silent vigil for eternity. Then it raised its right arm to point west, speaking with a voice so deep that it shook the ground under Caleb's feet.

THE WAY FOR YOU IS WEST. LEAVE NOW, AND REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THIS PLACE. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE.

Soren stepped forward, brandishing his weapon. "Why are you here? We pose no threat to you."

The creature extended a heavy palm, as if to squash the puny Adaian like a grape. YOUR THREAT IS REAL! it boomed. The arm swerved, flinging soil in all directions, and Caleb's heart skipped at the stony stub of a finger pointed directly at him. THIS ONE, THIS STRANGE ONE. THE DEVICE HE WIELDS IS AN ABOMINATION.