Circle at center

11
Journeys Into a Dark Place

“The Metal Highway is over there… are you sure this is the way to the Greens?” Nistel asked, looking up the dauntingly steep trail. They were only a few miles from Miradel’s villa, but the gnome had obviously noticed that the sage-ambassador followed a trail leading farther into the hills.

“Not exactly,” Belynda said with a laugh. “Though in our case, it will help us to get there. You didn’t think we were going to walk all the way, did you?”

“Oh, well, no. Oh!” Blinker said with a gulp. “We’re going with m-magic?”

“Don’t worry-it won’t hurt, and will save plenty of blisters on our feet.”

The gnome looked unconvinced, but nevertheless followed her up the rugged path. The route was much as Quilene had described it when she gave Belynda directions: an overgrown pathway with a foundation of solid stone, including steps that had been carved into the hillside during some long-forgotten century.

By the time they neared the summit, both of them were huffing for breath. Nistel fell a dozen steps behind by the time the sage-ambassador stepped between two pillars of gray stone to emerge atop the hill. She found the ruin of an old stone wall, and a flagstone surface that was still smooth and flat. Belynda knew this was the right place-the pattern of monoliths rising around the edge of the circular surface, surely distinct in all Nayve, matched exactly the description Quilene had provided.

In the center of the hilltop plaza was a raised stone basin containing clear water. While Blinker nervously checked behind the monoliths, Belynda touched the water with her fingers, then moved her hand through it in a gentle, swirling motion. In seconds the water in the stone bowl was spiraling lazily, circling in the direction of her movement. Satisfied, Belynda removed her hand. The water continued to whirl as she looked around the open space.

“There!” gasped Nistel.

A halo of lights suddenly sparkled, only a few steps away. More and more spots blinked into view, colors of gold and cream and crimson. Moments later those pieces of brightness had coalesced into the form of a serene elfwoman with hair of gold and a gown of bright red silk.

“Hello, Quilene,” Belynda said. She had been confident that the spell would work, but even so, the other woman’s appearance was a relief.

“Greetings, Belynda, Nistel,” replied the sage-enchantress with a graceful dip of her head. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?”

“Yes. I must see these Crusaders for myself-the Senate will not dare to doubt my own word.”

“I agree,” Quilene said. “And I admire your courage. Very well-Are you ready for the journey?”

“Right now?” Nistel said with a gulp. “Can’t we have a little bite of something to eat, first… maybe wait for the Hour of Darken?”

The two sages laughed sympathetically. “Actually, the teleportation spell is easier when your stomach’s empty,” Quilene suggested. “At least, when you’re not used to it.”

“It has been long since I’ve traveled this far,” Belynda admitted. “You’ve found a place to send us?”

“Yes… there’s a small pool in a grotto near the shore of the Snakesea. It will work quite well as a focus for the two of you.”

“Good.” Unlike the powerful enchantress-who could teleport either from or to a focal point of water-Belynda and her companion would require a swirl of water to anchor each end of the spell. Quilene had agreed to go ahead and locate such a terminus while Belynda had escorted the company to Natac.

“You will arrive in a very small, sheltered valley,” the enchantress was explaining. “There is a small trail, quite steep, leading up the side-you’ll have to climb about a hundred feet up to the forest floor. From there the path is obvious, running to the left and right. Take the right fork, and within a few hours you’ll arrive at the first village, a place called Tallowglen.”

“Tallowglen… we’ll start our search there,” said Belynda with a sense of finality.

Quilene pointed to the water in the stone bowl. “Start stirring, both of you. Be very gentle and steady in your movements.”

Blinker’s small, chubby hands splashed in the water across the bowl from Belynda’s graceful fingers. The gnome and the sage-ambassador began to trace movement through the water, and slowly the liquid commenced a graceful whirling. Quilene paced through a series of measured steps, walking around the basin, and past the two travelers, opposite the direction of the water’s swirl. The enchantress made three circuits around them while Belynda pushed the water into a faster and faster spin.

Abruptly Quilene stopped pacing, raising her arms as if she would encircle Belynda, Nistel, and the basin. She closed her eyes and tilted her head skyward, while from her throat came a deep, thrumming noise. The sound built in volume and pitch until it seemed to Belynda that a wind was howling through the nearby trees.

The ground seemed to tilt underfoot and, unconsciously, the sage-ambassador grasped the edge of the basin for support. She saw Blinker’s goggle-eyed face staring wildly as he, too, clutched the rim of the stone bowl. Colors brightened around them, a brilliance greater than sunlight, a glowing rainbow wrapping them in an embrace of silky hues.

The humming grew louder, a supernatural sound that went far beyond any noise emerging from Quilene’s throat. The ground lurched again, but Belynda was confident now that she wouldn’t lose her balance. Nistel’s eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was shaping soundless cries of fear.

Belynda felt a sensation of weightlessness, but had no fear of falling. Instead, she might have been floating, soaring and gliding through time and space. She laughed, a slight and girlish giggle that startled her and caused Blinker to moan in dire fear. Her next sensation was of water that suddenly felt cooler against her skin. The whirling rainbow slowly faded, and she saw that they were in a new place-a grotto, as Quiline had described. The sage-enchantress was nowhere to be seen. Instead, steep, rocky walls draped with trailing greenery rose on three sides. A gap in the surrounding cliff walls revealed a stretch of sunlit sea in the other direction.

The basin of water was here a natural depression atop a rock. Belynda and Nistel now had their hands in this cool liquid, which seemed to bubble up from some sort of spring. Belynda exhaled and stepped back, feeling wide-awake, her body tingling with energy.

“Th-that wasn’t so bad,” Nistel said, after opening one eye and looking cautiously around. “I guess we came quite a way, didn’t we?”

“Through the Ringhills and across the Snakesea,” Belynda confirmed. Looking around, she spotted a precipitous route up the steep side of the grotto. Overhead, the limbs of great trees reached into view, indicating that dense forest lay beyond. “And there’s the trail up the hill.”

Atop the cliff they found the two paths, and started down the right fork. The village of Tallowglen, and all the Greens, lay beyond.

F or many days the company of elves practiced drills with the bows and staves. Darryn Forgemaster brought hundreds of arrowheads, and-though the archers still used wooden tips for practice-many missiles were outfitted with the lethal steel blades. Owen and Fionn, meanwhile, took turns demonstrating the uses of the quarterstaff in battle, until most of the elves had become very proficient in the use of that weapon. The Celt and the Viking treated Natac with grudging respect, and had thus far accepted his leadership of the makeshift force. He, on the other hand, had been unfailingly polite to his fellow warriors, showing awareness of their knowledge, allowing them to decide how best to teach their skills to the elves.

Natac wished for a means to outfit his warriors with better weapons, but for now no ready opportunities presented themselves. Darryn was working on several swords, but that work took time-and in any event, even given several intervals or a full year he wouldn’t be able to make enough blades to outfit even half of the company.

During the same period the elves built many straw houses to serve as their quarters. These were placed around the large, flat field that served as a drilling and parade ground. Juliay, Nachol, and several other druids also joined the band, though not to serve as warriors. Instead, they contributed their magical talents to the healing of wounds and the management of the weather during the long days of drill.

Another druid, one Baystril, arrived one day on horseback. He brought a dozen of the nimble ponies that Natac had observed in the valleys around Miradel’s villa. Within a few hours, Natac, Tam, Deltan, several other elves, and a couple of druids had learned the basics of riding. The Tlaxcalan delighted in the speed and power of the horse, and on subsequent days he rode about the camp as much as he walked. Owen and Fionn, however, preferred to work on foot-which was a good thing, since none of the ponies of Nayve could have easily born the weight of either brawny human.

After a full tenday of working, Natac decided to commence the next part of the elves’ preparation.

“The best way to condition yourselves for war is to march, to rapidly cover long distances at good speeds,” he announced when the elves gathered for their morning instructions. “Today we begin such a march. It will be several tendays before we return to our valley.”

“Tendays?” yelped Owen mournfully. He looked longingly at the keg of ale he had just rolled up to his lodge. “Maybe I should stay back here and guard the camp?”

Natac only laughed. “I have in mind that you’ll be leading the way. Didn’t you tell me that you Vikings are famous raiders? I don’t see how you can do much raiding if you don’t know how to march at a good clip.”

“We liked to travel in our longships,” the Norseman countered. “Never did have much use for a lot of walking.”

“Well, it’s time you learned to appreciate it,” replied the Tlaxcalan. “Because that’s how we’re going to be getting around.”

Although he, too, looked glum at the prospect of a long hike, Fionn didn’t make any objection. Nor, of course, did any of the elves-as with everything else, they seemed to accept the wisdom of whatever Natac asked them to do.

Tamarwind Trak led the way. His own staff was marked with a plume of red cloth emblazoned with yellow feathers, and he held it upright at the start of the column. Natac thought it added a splendidly martial touch to their procession.

The Tlaxcalan strode along beside the elven scout for a while, directing the company along the path he had selected for the start of this march. In subsequent days, of course, they would venture into parts of Nayve that he had never before seen-indeed, Natac was looking forward to the chance to explore some more of his new world.

For most of the morning they followed a shallow valley, moving away from the lake and gradually climbing toward the heights of the Ringhills. The higher elevations loomed before them, some of the hills looking like mountain peaks. Snowfields dotted the upper slopes, and lofty crags rose into massive gateposts framing either side of their route.

Deltan Columbine played his flugel, dancing in step while the elves shouted, chanted, and sang in accompaniment. As they crossed a low pass Natac stopped marching, stepping off to the side in order to watch the column march past. The elves were invariably cheerful and happy, waving to their human instructor, or exclaiming to each other over the scenes unfolding around them. To judge from their mood, they might have been on a picnic, but Natac was pleased with this evidence of high morale.

Owen and Fionn trudged at the rear of the file, staff and club, respectively, slung listlessly over brawny shoulders.

“Cheer up, men-let the elves set you an example!” Natac encouraged them. He got only sour grunts in reply, but was content enough with that. Almost whistling himself, he fell into step behind them, and looked around at the new wonders of Nayve unfolding before him.

“F erngarden seems like a nice enough place,” Belynda admitted as she and Nistel stood on the porch of a comfortable inn, preparing to make their morning departure. Around them the little village was coming to life, ovens heating at the baker’s, a few cows lowing as they waited for their Lighten Hour milking. Daylight filtered through the trees, though even the clearings were still obscured by mist and fog.

The two travelers had spent the night in comfortable beds, after a dinner of good meat, fresh bread, and-for Nistel-the innkeeper’s self-brewed brown ale.

“That it does,” the gnome agreed. “It’s hard to believe that anything’s wrong in this part of the Greens.”

“But we’ve got a lot more looking to do,” the sage-ambassador noted.

“How much of it do we have to see?” asked the gnome glumly. Belynda didn’t exactly stride along, but the little fellow was forced nearly into a jog just to keep up with the elfwoman’s sedate pace. He had already gone through two pairs of slippers on the journey.

“I don’t know,” Belynda admitted. “But I know what Tam and Ulf said, and I’m certain they were telling the truth. We just have to keep looking until we find some proof, something I can take back to the Senate, tell them I’ve observed with my own eyes. No one would dare challenge such testimony, at least not to my face.”

“I hope we see something, soon!”

“Here, my lady.” Weathervall, the innkeeper, joined them on the porch and offered a package wrapped in white cloth. “Here’s some bread and cheese, also a bit of chicken and some apples. But are you sure you want to go that way?” He gestured along the narrow pathway extending behind the inn. “You’ll find plenty of comfortable lodgings, if you were only to go along the main road.”

“Thank you, but no,” Belynda said. “We’ve already visited many of those places. I fear our search calls for us to go farther into the woods.”

“Well, you have a care then… and come back this way, if you want a nice clean bed again.”

Once more Belynda conveyed her gratitude, and then she and Nistel set out on the narrow path and walked a ways before crossing a rickety bridge over Ferngarden’s small stream. There were a few barns and houses on this side of the water, and then the trees of the forest rose ahead.

“Psst-lady!”

The call came from the door of a small barn at the edge of the village. Nistel hopped along behind Belynda as she stepped up to the little building. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, like.” A stooped figure, a fellow with big ears and wide, watery eyes, gestured from the darkness.

“A goblin!” gasped the gnome, clutching Belynda’s skirt.

“That’s your name for us,” retorted the fellow. “We like to call ourselves nightcrawlers.”

“What do you want?” asked the sage-ambassador, gently pushing the gnome away.

“To warn you-don’t be going about with your eyes shut, now. Hear me?”

“Eyes shut… of course not. But what do you mean?”

“Just beware, eh?” With that last warning the fellow disappeared, scooting through the barn and vanishing through a crack in the rear wall.

The pair of travelers were left to wonder about the mysterious warning as they made their way along the forest track. The road was barely wide enough for a single cart, though judging from the grass growing under their feet it rarely received even that much traffic. Ditches flanked the track, but these were mostly filled with brush and brambles. From what they had learned in Ferngarden, they would have to go some distance along this route before they came to another village.

“I had no idea that the Greens were so big,” Belynda admitted many hours later. Nistel, plodding down the road beside her, was too tired to reply, so he only nodded in mute agreement.

“Perhaps we can find another inn, before too many nights have passed.” she added hopefully.

The gnome shook his head. “If we can even find any place in the next tenday, I’d be surprised,” he grumbled. “The road looks so ill-traveled-like maybe it isn’t even a road, just some track into the woods.”

Belynda sighed. “At least, it seems mostly straight. I don’t think an animal trail would run in a line like this.”

Nistel looked sideways at the sage-ambassador. “What if we just turned back here? We could… that is, you could, tell everyone in Circle at Center that you saw what Tamarwind and Ulfgang saw. Like you said, they’d have to believe you.”

Belynda smiled wryly. “They’d have to believe me because I’d be telling the truth, old friend. You know that. So I can’t make up a story about something I didn’t really see.”

Nistel sighed. Before he could come up with a suitable reply, they were startled by a rustle in the woods.

“Boo!” The voice was youthful, more enthusiastic than forceful. Judging from the sounds of breaking branches, someone with a very large body pushed forward, but Belynda was startled to look up into a boyish face, currently locked in a petulant frown.

“I said ‘Boo!’ Aren’t you frightened?” The mystery of the tall youth was solved when he stepped all the way out, his equine body emerging from the bushes that had concealed his hooves and broad chest. The young centaur pawed the ground and snorted, then crossed his arms over his human torso. “You should be frightened.”

“But why?” Belynda asked. “Surely you don’t intend us any harm!”

The young centaur sniffed. “Maybe I do. What if I did?”

“Why, then, of course we’d be frightened,” Belynda said. “After all, you’re quite large… and, I should say, there’s a rather fearsome aspect to you.”

“There is?” The centaur smiled broadly. “Well, that’s better.”

“I am Belynda Wysterian, and my companion is Nistel, called Blinker.”

“Hello Belynda, and Nistelblinker. I am Gallupper, of Clan Blacktail.”

“Does your clan dwell in this part of the Greens?” Belynda asked.

Gallupper looked sad. “They did,” the centaur said, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears. “But they’ve gone, now… they went with the Crusaders.”

“The Crusaders?” Belynda was immediately alert. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re not at all friendly… they know how to frighten you, for sure. It was them that I tried to learn from… but they wouldn’t teach me how. They-” Abruptly Gallupper was crying, and Belynda reached out to pat his shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “Not unless you want to. But would you like to come along with us?”

“Yes!”

They started along the trail, the young centaur sniffling, then brightening as he fell into step between his new companions. Belynda noticed that the sun had begun its Darken Hour ascent, and she looked with apprehension at the shadows thickening in the woods.

“I have heard of these Crusaders,” Belynda noted after a few miles had passed under their feet. “Do you know where they live? Where they can be found?”

“They live everywhere!” Gallupper said grimly. “But you can’t find ’em.”

“Why not?”

“They hide! They’ll find you, soon enough. But when they want to. Like they came and found my Blacktails.”

“Well,” Nistel said hopefully, “maybe we should just find a nice inn-let them find us there! It would be more comfortable than marching up-”

The gnome never finished, as two large figures burst from the woods to either side of the road. They swaggered forward brandishing large clubs, completely blocking the path.

“Giants!” squeaked Nistel.

“Crusaders!” gasped Gallupper. The centaur whirled on his rear hooves and dashed back along the track, so fast that his black tail streamed straight behind him.

“Who dares to enter the realm of the Holy Cross?” demanded one of the giants, raising his club.

Belynda was stunned into speechlessness. Nistel, meanwhile, turned and sprinted away after the young centaur, and the sage-ambassador belatedly decided to join them. She, too, whirled about, but before she could take a step, another great figure burst from the woods, blocking the gnome’s retreat. This was a full-grown centaur, the great horse-body bashing aside small trees as one of his human hands wielded a large club. That weapon came down sharply on Nistel’s forehead.

Belynda gasped as her companion tumbled to the ground, blood spurting from a deep gash in his scalp.

“Here, now, witch.” The centaur’s face was screwed into a ferocious grin that was somehow more frightening for all its apparent good humor. “Let’s say you’re going to come wi’ me, all quiet.”

Before Belynda could reply, she felt strong arms wrap around her, knew she had been seized by a giant. Without ceremony, the big creature threw her across the centaur’s broad back. Ropes quickly lashed her wrists and ankles, and then they were on the move, pushing into the underbush, leaving the still and pathetic form of the gnome lying in a spreading pool of blood.

“M ore witches, lord,” declared the centaur Sir Christopher had named Sir Gawain. The messenger paused in the doorway of the tent to bow respectfully to Sir Christopher.

“This hellish place is crawling with them-they’re like lice!” declared the knight, rising out of his camp chair with a groan. For a week now his army had been on the march, and he was forced to make do with rudimentary comforts such as his folding chair and small campaign tent. “How many this time?”

“Two of the humans, ones that call themselves druids, captured together. And an elfwoman, lord, caught on the Ferngarden trail,” replied the centaur. “She’s got that gold hair, that stiff look, of a real witch, she does, lord.”

“Prepare them for burning. I shall inspect them, and they will be consumed.”

The two druids were, not surprisingly, young and handsome humans who had come to dwell together in the Greens. The knight took little note of the third captive, the elf held off to the side, as he allowed Gawain to fill him in about the humans. They were male and female, each forced to stand upright, suspended by hair held in the firm grasp of a giant. Blood streaked down the chins and chests of each-standard procedure required that their tongues be cut out to prevent the casting of magic.

“They was taken from a house over that last stream we crossed,” the centaur explained. “After they came out to find us when we killed their cow in the pasture.”

The two humans, battered and barely conscious, gaped at Sir Christopher with haunted eyes and those bloody, cruelly gashed mouths.

“Your cow will be the feast tonight-and your deaths the entertainment,” the knight informed them.

The man tried to flail against the grip of the giant, but Sir Christopher merely laughed and cuffed the insolent wretch.

At that, the female screeched at him, opening the gory well of her mouth, and the knight’s eyes crinkled in disgust. He dropped his staff at her feet. Gawain stepped back as the shaft of wood suddenly twisted and coiled. It became a serpent, hood spread wide as the head lifted from the ground. The snake struck, burying sharp fangs deep into the thigh of the female prisoner.

She screamed and thrashed futilely at the serpent. Sir Christopher watched impassively as she gasped for breath. The man’s eyes blazed with unspeakable pain as the woman twisted and moaned, kicking reflexively with her visibly swelling leg.

“Throw her on a fire,” Christopher decided. “Right now, before the venom has a chance to kill her.”

In many respects a dead witch was a dead witch, but insofar as possible the knight preferred to have them slain by fire. It was his strong belief that even the black magic of this satanic cult could be broken by the crackling purity of flame.

“Make him watch her end,” he added.

The male druid watched in numb horror as his wife was dragged out of the tent and he was pushed roughly after. Nodding contentedly, Sir Christopher touched the snake, which again hardened into a straight shaft of wood.

“And the elf?” he asked, only then noticing Belynda standing near the tent flap.

“She is over here, lord,” said Gawain. “We left her tongue in, in case you wished to interrogate her.”

“Yes, perhaps,” the knight said. He wasn’t worried about a little elf magic-save for the enchantresses, they knew only feeble and showy spells. It was the druids, with their raising of earth, their command of wind and waves, whose powers frightened him.

Now he didn’t have the heart for a long conversation with one of these ignorant elves. The routine was becoming predictable: No matter how patiently he explained the nature of Purgatory to them, they persistently refused to understand. The myth of Nayve was nothing if not pervasive.

But, as he narrowed his eyes and studied her, something about this elf caused him to hesitate, made him think of her as more than just an enemy, a tool of Satan deserving only destruction. Her eyes, green and deep and wide-set, stared at him with an expression he allowed himself to believe was awe. They followed him as he walked slowly closer. He was certain that his first impression was correct.

This woman, this elf, was different. Her beauty choked his breath in his throat, sent the blood pulsing through his temples. Her eyes were almost hypnotic, and the gold of her hair was like an angel’s halo.

Caution whispered a warning: Was she merely another temptation? Or had God at last sent him a true angel? He would find out, and quickly.

“Your gown,” he said, mesmerized by those eyes. “It is like a witch’s… yet you are no witch.”

“No, I am not,” she agreed, her voice level and those eyes as intent as ever. “I am a sage-ambassador of Argentian.”

“But you are not like the others, “Sir Christopher said fervently. “For you know of the glory of God, do you not?”

Her expression was puzzled. She paused, then spoke carefully. “I know of many glories… and I know of the Goddess Worldweaver, who dwells at the Center of Everything.”

“You must know that is blasphemy!” Christopher growled, shaking his head, clearing away the fog that had been settling over him. Maybe she was evil, as wicked and vile as any of the others. Or even worse! He saw it now: The witch had been spellbinding him even as he talked to her. It was the only explanation that made sense. But her eyes… they drew him in so.

Abruptly he reached under the throat of his tunic, clasped the stone on its golden chain. He pulled it forward and saw her gasp, an expression of fear that confirmed his suspicion. This woman was not here to test him-she was an angel of purity, a vessel of his reward.

“You know the power of the Holy Cross,” he said. “Do you yield to me?”

“What is it you wish of me?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the stone.

“I wish your help in bringing the true word to this pagan place… Help me share the joyous news of our Savior’s reign! And scour the stain of Satan from every tree, every cursed house of this forsaken land!”

With obvious effort she tore her eyes from the talisman, and when they fixed upon his face they were full of anger and scorn.

“You are the stain on the land!” she retorted with surprising vehemence. “You are the evil that should be scoured!”

He raised the staff, ready to drop the wood to the floor, when something, that glimmer of vitality in her eyes, once more stayed his hand. She was teasing him, taunting him with the illusion of wisdom-as if she were the one who understood him.

“You think to tempt me… to be granted a rapid death. But I tell you now, witch… you will suffer-you will suffer as only the chosen few of my captives suffer!” He turned to Gawain, who still loomed just inside the entrance. “Leave us-I will be alone with this captive.”

With a flick of his black tail, the big centaur quickly ducked out.

The roaring in Christopher’s ears was a thunder as he seized Belynda’s small body in both his strong hands. Her beauty taunted him, another magic trick, he knew, as he tore away her gown to reveal the revolting contours of her body.

“You could have been an angel!” he croaked. “Instead you are the serpent, disguised with lips of seduction, eyes of deceit!”

He threw her down. Death was too merciful, a relief from the suffering that a righteous God desired, nay, demanded. She would pay dearly for her deception.

And then his own tunic was off, and he fell on top of her. She screamed and struggled, but she was like a child and he was a powerful man-a man blessed by the strength of a Holy God, given the tasks of an Immortal Avenger. She twisted frantically, but he tore the rest of her garment away, roughly parted her flailing, kicking legs.

He used his weight to hold her down as he penetrated her. His own body was a weapon, a sword and a spear and a knife. He pushed and cut at her, relishing the sounds of her pain, laughing as she shrieked, wailed, and sobbed, cherishing the agony he inflicted upon her. By the time she lost consciousness, he was nearly finished with his punishment, and when the moment of release came he saw the full glory of his righteousness, and he knew that vengeance was his, and would be complete.

T he small figure pushed through the underbrush, making a careless racket, moving like a thing that feared nothing-or else was so intensely panicked that all rational caution was overwhelmed by the press of unspeakable dread.

Nistel was alive, though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. His head remained sticky with blood-blood!-and one eye had swollen shut. The other stared wildly straight ahead, and the terrified gnome gave no thought to anything other than a path to escape the danger certainly lurking behind.

He had been running for only a minute or two, the time since he had awakened in the forest to find himself lying in a pool of his own gore. The shock had spurred him to his feet, and then set those feet into motion. But now, as his lungs strained for air and his bloodshot eye revealed only a tangled expanse of bramble and woods, he stumbled into a walk, then finally halted, sitting on a stump while he very slowly caught his breath.

And only then did he remember Belynda.

“Oh!” he cried. He popped to his feet, and then began to cry. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably, even his swollen eye leaking big tears.

What could have happened to her? He tried to remember… he was pretty sure that she hadn’t been anywhere in sight when he woke up. Of course, he remembered with a pang of guilt, it’s not like he had thought to look around very much.

He knew then that he had to go back to that awful place, to see if Belynda was there. If she was not, he had to… to do what? How could he decide? There was no one to ask, and nothing like this had ever happened before. What could he do?

The gnome decided to worry about that part later.

It was pretty easy to see the path he had taken through the woods. Broken branches, trampled ferns and smashed flowers all left an indication of a gnome-sized tunnel bored through the entangling growth. Nistel retraced his steps, tripping over vines and roots, pushing branches and thorns out of his way, wondering how he had ever been able to run through such a thicket.

Many minutes passed before he saw the glimmer of daylight ahead, and then stepped out of the brush onto the forest road. He shuddered as, once again, he saw the dark pool that was his own blood. Searching up and down the road, he peered into the underbrush, kicked through the tall grass in the ditches flanking the track. He returned again to the place where he had awakened, having seen no sign of Belynda. Despairingly he looked down, saw the black patch of gore on the ground, and shook his head.

“I must look a mess!” he realized, with a gasp of dismay. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief, but now, the blood coagulated and caked with grime, he couldn’t really do much to clean off his face.

Squinting upward, he decided that he could see a little bit with his swollen eye, but only if he was looking directly at the sun. It was then that he realized that full daylight blazed around him.

“How long did I lie here?” he wondered, asking the silent shrubbery. “It was getting dark, but just, when…”

And finally his thoughts came hard against the reality of the previous evening. Belynda and he had been attacked, violently, in the Greens of Nayve! He, Nistel, had been nearly killed by a centaur’s club. As to the sage-ambassador, he couldn’t think what had happened to her. He knew that she wouldn’t have run away and left him there-though he remembered with a moan of despair that, in his initial panic, he had certainly been ready to run off and do just that to her. That memory triggered fresh sobs, and raised horrible questions in his mind. Where was Belynda? Was she hurt? The possibile fates of his friend were terrible to contemplate, but they all involved her being taken away by the centaur and those two giants.

“I’ll rescue her,” the little gnome said-or started to say. It seemed that the whole sentence just wouldn’t work its way out of his mouth. Probably because he knew it was a foolish fancy. What could he, a pitiful, half-blinded gnome, do against centaurs and giants and who knew what else?

“Then I’ll have to go get help!” he declared, and this time there was force behind his words. He looked up and down the road. He was pretty sure that he and Belynda had been going that way, so he turned in the opposite direction. Ferngarden with its comfortable inn was a day’s walk away. At least he could tell someone there what had happened.

Nistel started off at a run, but quickly slowed to a bouncing jog. A minute later he was walking, but still following the road back to the village. He remembered that inn… it was a nice one. He would certainly cool off with an ale when he got there. Of course, that didn’t make what happened to Belynda any easier to stomach, but still, the innkeeper had known how to brew a nice barrel…

“Nistelblinker?”

The gnome nearly jumped out of his boots at the whisper coming from the underbrush.

“Ga-Gallupper? Is that you?” he asked, trembling. “Where did you go?” he demanded more sharply when he saw the young centaur between the branches of the shrubbery.

Gallupper came forward. “I’m sorry I ran away,” he said. “It’s just-those Crusaders are so frightening!”

“I know,” Nistel replied. He sniffled at the fresh memories. “And I think they took Belynda! Do you know where they live, where they might have taken her?”

“No,” Gallupper said, shaking his head. “Their lord came and called to my clan… and they went away with him. But they wouldn’t take me, and I don’t know where they went. Are you looking for them?”

Nistel looked down. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t think I could rescue her by myelf. So instead I’m going for help.”

“I’ll come with you-you can ride on my back, and we’ll travel much faster.”

“That’s a good idea,” the gnome said. “Can you help me up?”

He stepped toward the centaur’s side, but before he could mount, a big shadow moved beside the road. Nistel turned around with a startled yelp, but he was too slow to run. By the time he saw what was happening, a pair of hard-eyed elves had him by the scruff of the neck.