With the morning cold clawing at him, Terjal sat cross-legged before a copper bowl couched in a tripod of smooth black wood.

There hadn't been any snow falling in days, yet the knawing cold remained. What snow was left had turned to hard ice, causing the horses and mules to slow their pace, hooves skidding along the glossy surface of the roads. They'd reached the mouth of the Grip just after sundown. Not wishing to enter the vast swamp in the dark, Terjal ordered the party to make camp for the night.

Now, with dawn just blushing above the horizon, Terjal sat before the copper bowl as it held the last remnant of fur taken from White Rage.

Aiya, sitting beside him, spoke softly. "I doubt you'll delve anything further from that scrap. It's been too long from its source."

Terjal continued to stare at the greying tuft of fur. "There's no harm in at least attempting to probe one more tiny bit of information from it."

"The harm will come in expending needed spell energy on a lost cause."

Terjal looked up at Aiya slowly, a slight smile bending his lips. "I won't be long at it--if I can't get what I need in five heartbeats, I'll break the delve."

Aiya returned his smile, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow warmly. "I'll make sure that you keep to that limit, then."

Terjal's smile melted away as he returned his attention to the copper bowl. In his left hand he held a grey lodestone attached to a silver chain. The chain was wrapped round his wrist like a shiny asp. A second silver chain glittered beneath the thick strands of his dark red hair and pressed against his forehead. With his right hand he made a wide, elegant circular pass over the bowl. Then he brought his right hand to clutch his left fist, allowing the lodestone to dangle above the bowl.

Fine threads of energy snaked from the lodestone and struck at the limp fur.

Terjal's neck arched back and his eyes closed tightly as the energy bounced back at him. As he sunk deeper into the delve, his mind's eye searched through the blackness, trying to gain mental purchase within its depths. Suddenly something brushed past him and he clutched at it--but it sank back into the darkness before he could grasp it fully. Soon there was only darkness overlaying more darkness. Whatever had touched him was now lost from his hold forever.

Terjal felt his lips move as a half-moan, half-mumble escaped from them. Then he felt himself swaying wildly, something clutching at his shoulders--

Terjal's eyes flung open to find Aiya's face close before his, her hands gripping tightly his shoulders, shaking hard. "Did I keep to my limit?" he blurted, his breaths labored.

"If I hadn't been here," Aiya said as she loosened her grip, "you wouldn't have."

Terjal closed his eyes for a moment and commanded his muscles to relax. He felt Aiya's fingers picking the silver chain from his hair gently and he resisted the urge to smile. When he at last opened his eyes, she took his left hand in hers and unwound the lodestone's chain from his wrist. "I should manage," he told her in a brittle voice.

Aiya trained her gaze upon him, unwavering. "I know."

Terjal cleared his throat. "During the delve, I said something--or rather, I murmured something. Did you understand any of it?"

Aiya grinned playfully. "Rather, you don't remember what you said, oh bearded Master of Cloudreach?"

Terjal returned her grin, refusing to be baited. "Of course not. When you're mind delving on the outside, memory is more hindrance than help because it can shorten a delve significantly. Why else do you think I had you at my side? Surely your role wasn't solely that of timekeeper? I needed an interpreter, simply." Aiya's pink flush rewarded Terjal's challenge. "So, your assessment of what I'd said during the delve?"

Aiya pursed her lips for a moment, a frown pulling at her smooth black brows. "Well, I believe your first words were a phrase: 'White Rage."

"Ah," Terjal nodded, "that is what the direspawn is called, then--I sensed somehow that I was uttering the name of the beast. I also felt a great deal of unresolved hostility--and with a name such as 'White Rage,' that's not surprising. Unfortunately," shaking his head, "I couldn't discover whom or even what that anger is precisely directed at."

"So Lord Vaukmond might not be the target after all."

"That's possible," Terjal said, nodding again as he bunched his lower lip, considering. "We have no reason or purpose for the creature's existance--only that of simple, undirected anger. In fact, this has all happened so quickly that the choice between an adequate divination or immediate action never really became an option." In sudden exasperation, Terjal smacked his fist into his open palm. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Aiya did not flinch at this sudden demonstration of frustration. "So far, we've been stumbling from one supposition to another--and for all we know, we could have been merely baited by our enemy into accepting each clue as it presented itself."

Aiya crossed her arms, her dark brows still drawn in a pensive scowl. "But what of the early frosts and extreme cold? There must be some significance to it--for if it's simply a false clue, it is one that has been played a bit long." Aiya shook her head slightly and continued, "No, there must be a connection between this creature, White Rage, and the biting cold that surrounds it. It's more than a coincidence, I think, that the cold deepens whenever it is near."

"Well," Terjal sighed as he stroked his lightly bearded chin, "there are at least two possibilities: the first being that our foe expected such a drastic change in the weather. In fact, the rogue spellcaster may have used the acceleration of winter to limit Vaukmond's resources, which of course includes ourselves, in battling him. If this possibility is correct, then our enemy has done his homework and planned accordingly."

Aiya's eyes widened a little. "When the few surviving soldiers returned, the Duke began planning a campaign against this--"

"--This enemy 'warrior'," Terjal interrupted tightly. "However, His Grace was planning an attack initially against a foe he deemed a contemporary--another 'warrior,' albeit a stronger one. Remember, the Weapon Master gives little credence to unearthing information about spellcasters--even with a trained conjurer serving in his court. Save for you and I, he knows almost nothing about the motivations, the likes and dislikes of the average spellcaster. Vaukmond's oversight," Terjal continued grimly, "is that he should have consulted me much sooner--once there was even a hint that a beast was behind the destructions. Even he should have realized after seeing the injuries wrought upon his men that sorcery was involved."

Aiya cast her gaze downward for a moment and her voice grew small. "Yes, and that oversight may mean many more deaths before we catch this foe-spellcaster." Then, looking up suddenly, added, "Terjal, you implied there was a second possibility."

Terjal felt a sudden pang of guilt dig into him at the look of embarrassed dismay upon Aiya's face. His harsh indictment of the Duke appeared to be directed at her as well--she was, after all, Vaukmond's Adjutant, an expert in sorcery. He wanted to tell her that he knew she must have warned the Duke that sorcery might be involved, and that such warnings would be an exercise in futility when tumbling into the ears of one who greatly distrusted magic of any kind. Still, he saw the etch of self-blame turning the corners of her mouth slightly down. He realized that nothing he could say would placate her--nor did he think she wanted it.

"Yes," Terjal said quickly, eager to break from his own awkward thoughts. "Yes, there is one other possibility--that this early winter occurred unexpectedly, which is much more intriguing. If our opposite number has been caught unprepared by the sudden cold, then he could be in trouble. The implication is that he didn't fully comprehend what he had unleashed--and a lack of preparation or of dedication is not a hallmark of one of my graduates."

"Could it then be someone who failed to graduate?"

Terjal began to stroke his beard absently as he nodded. "Yes, this rogue could easily have been under my tutelage at one time. But there have been so many that either stopped their training abruptly, else stole away under the cover of darkness to spare themselves the shame of openly quitting. And then there are my expelled students, of which the number is no less. Alas, my recordkeeping of such is quite...lacking."

Aiya's face softened into an expression of sympathy, the lines of self-blame around her mouth disappearing. "I can understand you would be worried that a conjurer you mentored might turn towards evil. But isn't this all just conjecture? Without any definite clues to the identity of the controller of White Rage, we can't even act on the deductions we've made."

"Correct again, my former student," Terjal said, a wide smile forming beneath his mustache. "However, events may move too fast for further discussion. At least now we have the luxury of exploring the possibilities--once we enter the Grip, that luxury will surely all but disappear."

"Have you spoken with Shankal yet? An aquamancer might be able to present clues we may have missed--as well as enlightening us to whatever special spells he might unleash upon our foe."

"Of course," Terjal said gratefully. He'd been so absorbed in spinning scenarios that he'd nearly overlooked the advantage of seeking the opinion of a spellcaster with unique talents. "If I can't speak with Shankal tonight, the responsibility will fall to you. In fact," Terjal paused to look over his shoulder at Shankal, the aquamancer busily scooping a breakfast of oatmeal into his mouth, "you might as well brief him now, while I discuss this with the others." Then, returning his gaze to Aiya, added, "I see that Thrasher is finished preparing his birds and the Blades are done with their breakfasts."

Aiya beamed, the morning sunlight making her smile brighter. "Something tells me that it's not a bad idea to keep Shankal slightly apart from Thrasher and Arjas--even though Arjas is dependent upon a healer." Then she rose to her feet and strolled toward the aquamancer.

Terjal watched as Aiya bent toward Shankal, her hand brushing his shoulder. Even though Terjal knew the gesture was meant merely to capture the man's attention--a purely innocent motion, still he couldn't help feeling the warm sting of jealousy steam through his heart.

Terjal was beginning to wonder if this new sudden emotion was yet another spell tossed at them by their foe.

###

"You carry death with you as far as I'm concerned," Thrasher hissed at Terjal, his forefinger stabbing the air between them. "Two of my falcons have fallen victim to the Grip before we've even entered it ourselves. Now you offer only your suppositions--your 'possibilities'--of what may befall us. You consider yourself a spellweaver? You know nothing, yet you order me to sacrifice my falcons in your name!"

Terjal had noticed Thrasher's anger bristling to the surface before he'd even begun to sketch the outline of his plans. The conjurer had felt the heat of the Outsider's rage reach out to him, tightening his throat as he spoke to his Blades. Thrasher himself now seemed ready to choke upon his own anger. Patiently, Terjal allowed the man to continue his tirade.

"You are a coward, Rakmir. If you were half the spellweaver everyone boasts you to be, you would go into the Grip alone. Instead, you surround yourself with the muscle of your Blades." Thrasher wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with the grimed back of a hand. "And you," Thrasher whipped round, finger jabbing in Strandholt's direction. "Can you still call yourself an Outsider as you blindly follow this spellweaver?"

Strandholt's expression remained surprisingly unperturbed. "I follow no one blindly, Thrasher. I serve only those I respect, and I have much respect for Terjal Rakmir."

"Then you are as much a fraud as he," the herdsman replied, glowering darkly at the blond Blade.

Terjal glanced quickly at Darman. The First Blade's gaunt, lined face had tightened with a barely controlled anger of his own. The fingers of Darman's right hand began to walk toward his crossbow with the stealth of a mountain cat. The conjurer stared at Darman until the First Blade's glare met his own. Let him speak, Terjal nodded calmly at the warrior. I do not fear his threats, for he needs me as much as I need him, though he does not realize it. Even though he would not hear Terjal's words in his mind, the conjurer knew Darman sensed the plea. The First Blade nodded at Terjal in silent commiseration.

"It was on your orders that I sent my falcons to their deaths. Your orders!" His rant exhausted, Thrasher spat upon the cold ground, a tiny pillow of steam rising from it.

"Yes," Terjal said in a quiet voice, a thread of metal running calmly through it, "it was on my orders that you sent your birds over the Grip. And I have been trying--though perhaps not effectively enough--to explain why all of this," his arms outstretched, the open palms seeming to envelop their surroundings, "must happen. So, I will attempt to do a better job of explaining." Terjal inhaled deeply as if he were about to speak to a recalcitrant child. "We are on a quest that, if successful, will save many lives. Even as we speak, at this very moment, people are dying as a result of White Rage, the direspawn conjured here for a reason that as yet eludes us. But its effects on the environment are unmistakable. Everyone here," Terjal looked from Strandholt, to Darman and then to Arjas, "has someone they care about whose life is in danger so long as White Rage exists in this plane. The sooner we destroy the direspawn, the more lives will be saved: Outsider, villager and urbanite alike."

Terjal took a step closer, putting himself within an arm's reach of Thrasher. "You think your falcons died in vain," the conjurer said, his blue eyes snaring and holding the herdsman's dark glare. "But they did not die in vain at all. In death they told us that the Grip remains a wild place, supporting all that Darman has told us of it. As they flew to meet their deaths, your birds carried a spell I cast upon them that, if fully effective, would have entered the mind of whoever controls White Rage. It was not as successful as I'd hoped. But I managed to find out where our foe is located: approximately ten miles southwest of here. If we move fast, we might just catch him by surprise."

Thrasher squinted down at the conjurer, and Terjal saw something turning in the man's dark eyes. "But what have you suffered, spellweaver? What have you lost?"

Terjal favored the herdsman with a patient, placid smile. Oh, more than you will ever know, herdsman. More still before this quest is finished. "You are not the only one who has suffered here. Both Aiya and myself have overextended our magic badly just to save all our lives. But I will not give up on this and I will continue alone if necessary. We will be the first contingent to enter this swamp since the squad Darman commanded. Hence to survive, cooperation and coordination are essential. Everyone has a part to play, especially you."

Terjal took yet another step closer to Thrasher--so close that he saw the fine veins like red lightening against the whites of the man's eyes. "We could proceed into the Grip without the use of your falcons, but having them circling overhead will make navigating through the swamp easier. There is one final question I must have you answer: Will you accept my leadership? Question me if it pleases you, for I do not wish blind obedience from anyone. However, in an emergency or in battle, I must have my commands followed immediately. If you choose not to follow me, however, I must report your refusal to Shel'han Nyjef. Do not view this as a threat, for it is only formality."

Terjal sensed Thrasher's thoughts in skirmish behind the man's heavy brow as the herdsman considered the conjurer's entreaty. Then Thrasher's face relaxed into a mien of resignation, and he ground through clenched teeth, "Threat or no, your words carry weight. I will follow you until your quest is done, then. But know this, spellweaver: Do not expect charity from my tent or support at the Outsiders' council should you appear before the Shel'han once again begging favors."

"Good enough, then." Terjal glanced quickly around, his blue eyes catching the gaze of those surrounding him. After clearing his throat, he began, "I have discovered not only where our enemy is but that this individual, almost certainly human, is fueled by a deep, intense hatred and, from what I can tell, not short of all-consuming." Pausing, he added, "Nothing is more dangerous than someone with power and obsessive hatred directed at someone or something. The direspawn we've encountered--and will encounter again--is called White Rage by its creator."

Terjal allowed the murmurs of surprise among the men to run their course before continuing, "We will proceed southwest into the Grip since the energies I sensed seem to run in that direction." The conjurer turned a steady gaze upon the Outsider herdsman. "Thrasher, what do your falcons tell you of the tree cover in that bearing?"

Thrasher continued to wear his mask of sullen acquiescence, his brows drawn down over his eyes like the wings of a dark bird. "We should have no problems with that for about two miles. In fact, the thick foliage should conceal us from other flying creatures." Then pausing, his mien darkened further. "But there is one problem. The falcon who returned told me that her two companions were caught by plants: one with jaws like a wolf, the other with a long gummed tongue which snatched the two from the air as they flew low over the trees."

Terjal frowned as he turned to his First Blade. "Darman, do you recall such plants preying upon your men when you last visited the Grip?"

"Nothing such as that, but then we weren't morsel-sized featherballs either," Darman replied as he kept his gaze upon Terjal, clearing ignoring the dangerous glower favored him by Thrasher.

Terjal crossed his arms upon his robed chest as he watched Aiya and Shankal join the assembled group. "We'll have to take that chance: better concealment and a moderate danger instead of the organized resistance that comes with open traveling. Thrasher, I want most of your remaining falcons high in the air where they should suffer no danger from the ground. I also want you to keep at least three birds--or whatever you can spare--on hand for immediate searching of the terrain ahead. The birds in the air can come down at dusk."

The corner of Thrasher's mouth tilted upward in a semblance of a smile as the herdsman nodded in agreement. Perhaps now, Terjal thought to himself, he realizes that I do have true concern for his birds. "Well," Terjal said, rubbing his palms together in a brusque gesture of closing, "if there are no questions, then we should saddle up now. Darman will be riding point and Aiya will be with me in the center as I keep an eye on our extra mounts. Thrasher and Strandholt will take the flanks and Shankal will protect our backs along with Arjas." Terjal favored the stocky dark-haired Blade with a look of open concern. "Arjas, I realize that you are in a great deal of pain..."

The Blade's mouth twisted upward in a grin that was half scowl. "In the heat of battle I'll forget the pain in my knee well enough."

At last Terjal and the others turned to face the entrance to the Grip as it yawned its foul stench at them. As he swung atop his mount and nudged the horse toward the moist, rotted opening, the others following slowly behind, Terjal felt something wriggle along his spine. He couldn't tell if it was from the anticipation of discovery--or from simple fear.

###

Terjal didn't want to admit to the others that he'd never even seen a swamp, much less entered one. It's bad enough, he thought ruefully to himself, that at least one in our number has little or no faith in my leadership.

This particular swamp appeared to be particularly foreboding--more so than they normally should be, Terjal surmised. The Grip seemed to grow upward from the land like a green, quivering tumor: something that didn't really belong to the original landscape, but had grown out of it anyway. The swamp itself appeared to be self-contained with its tall ribs of thick grass and bent trees curving over it like a canopy, sealing in the humid, fetid air and blocking most of the sunlight--the sun itself seemed to pass above them only in flashing winks.

Winter disappeared once Terjal's party entered into the Grip's environs. Terjal began to feel his sweat rising in scattered patches through the cloth of his robe. The thick air lay heavy in his lungs with each breath. He glanced at Darman. The First Blade was peering cautiously ahead, his gaze missing nothing in their path. Despite his long absence from the Grip, Darman's senses were still sharp and attuned to the swamp as if he'd returned only days before.

As they progressed on their southwestern course, Terjal heard chittering sounds echoing all around them. Occasionally the chittering would cease, then the sudden silence would be broken by a shrill screech. The screech would keen higher into the warm air, seeming to bounce from tree branch to tree branch. Then the shrieking would abruptly stop and the chittering would begin again. Terjal only imagined what hideous end the screaming creature had endured--perhaps being attacked, then devoured by another larger creature.

By day's end the horses and mules began to move sluggishly, their hooves catching clumsily on a tree branch half-buried in sand and moist earth, causing the animals to stumble forward and bray their discomfort. Terjal's own vision blurred as his eyes began to cloud over with drying mucous. A few times he had to rouse himself from a brief doze as his mount swayed over rocks and sludge.

Shaking his head vigorously, Terjal surveyed the rest of his party. They fared no better than he--only Darman and Shankal seemed unusually alert. Terjal spurred his horse toward the First Blade. "Darman, I believe the heat is drawing much energy from all of us--we should make camp here. Now." The conjurer yawned behind his fist.

The First Blade nodded as he turned to gaze at the others, then returned to look at Terjal. "As luck would have it, we're coming upon a good clearing." Pointing, "We can make camp there."

Terjal's gaze followed Darman's pointing finger. Sure enough, the clearing lay ahead like a shimmering coin.

###

Night had fallen like a black net over the Grip filling every space with impenetrable darkness. After having eaten a light meal, all in the party save Terjal and the aquamancer had collapsed upon their makeshift bedding and were now sound asleep.

Terjal's body craved sleep, but his mind buzzed relentlessly, almost feverishly, with thought. He was almost grateful when he saw Shankal approaching him. "What do you have for me?" Terjal asked as the aquamancer sat down beside him. Terjal felt sweat trailing along his hairline, tickling down his cheek as he turned to gaze at Shankal.

"I'm worried about Arjas," Shankal began, beads of perspiration dotting his wide forehead like dew on a blade of grass. "His leg wound is not healing as fast as it normally should. At first I thought I had lost my healer's touch after taking care of the others--that I'd mended too many patients at one time. But Darman and Strandholt's wounds, though less severe, healed quickly--even Arjas's other minor wounds have healed." Shankal's white brows slanted in a frown, pausing. "Except for his knee."

"Do you have any explanations?" Terjal felt moisture from his brow seeping onto his eyelashes and he blinked it away.

"Nothing definite," Shankal replied, his gaze unflinching, even in the heat and humidity. "But I have a feeling that there may be a force hindering my healing of Arjas's knee. I just don't know what purpose this would serve, save to limit our muscle. In fact," Shankal lowered his voice, "I don't think Arjas should stand guard until I can understand fully what is happening."

Terjal closed his eyes for a moment, considering. Shankal had vocalized something that had been nibbling at his thoughts intermittently since leaving Quitonne: that something, or someone, was purposely interfering with Shankal's ministrations upon Arjas's knee. But why only Arjas? Why not keep Shankal from working his healer's art on the others as well?

Terjal opened his eyes and stared into the darkness before him. "Arjas won't stand guard, then--Thrasher can go in his stead. But," he turned to look squarely at the aquamancer, "you must realize that later on we might not have that luxury."

Shankal's mouth curved in a wide smile, as if he'd expected Terjal's comment. "That is why I want your permission to attach an Undine to Arjas if I can't fix whatever is wrong with him."

"An Undine?" Terjal felt no embarrassment at such ignorance, for little was known of the ways of the aquamancers.

"An Undine is among the weaker denizens of the Elemental Plane of Water. I can attach it to Arjas and relieve some of the pain, as well as increase his mobility particularly," Shankal's hand swept their surroundings, "in such waterlogged terrain."

Terjal squinted at Shankal in the darkness. "But how do they accomplish such a task?"

"The Undine feed off of sensations, pain being most to their liking," Shankal replied, his smile now a grin. "And for the Undine, Arjas's knee would be a banquet."

"That is the benefit--what is the disadvantage?" Terjal asked bluntly. "Bargaining with otherworldly creatures can be more expensive than it's worth."

"Ah, but I am not without friends among the Undine," Shankal said, the scant moonlight glinting off his pale eyes. "I'm sure I can coax an Undine to serve for naught but the experience itself."

"Well, save your persuasion for later," Terjal said as he looked up at the moon which seemed carved in sections by trees and vines. "I want to limit our magical activity until we are deeper into the Grip."

Shankal tilted his head and studied the conjurer. "You know, after speaking with your Blades I realize that you have a reason for everything you do, no matter how strange it may appear at first glance. Thrasher seems to be the only one who questions your orders--but then, he's only just met you." Again the smile widened into a full grin.

Terjal reflected Shankal's smile. "Well, Thrasher reminds me a little of the Duke of Windemere: His Grace distrusts magic at every turn--and yet, in the end, he trusts me." Then, pausing, added, "I will reveal my reasons later--I promise. But right now," yawning, "all I wish is a little food in my belly and a pillow beneath my head."

Shankal nodded approvingly. "That is all anyone should want, even in a stinking, festering swamp such as this."

###

The morning air, heavy with heat and moisture, rose around Terjal's group in thick sheets. Terjal and Darman were the first to awaken, Aiya and the others soon after. Once their hasty breakfasts were consumed, the party saddled their mounts and again set out for the heart of the Grip.

Darman rode ahead to scout both obstacles and predators. Terjal noticed that his three Blades appeared to have acclimated themselves to the clammy atmosphere of the swamp. Perhaps from campaigns past, Terjal thought to himself, in climes similar to this. Even Arjas, bad knee and all, sat upon his horse straight as the short sword strapped to his side.

But Terjal himself was not tolerating the oppressive heat and humidity very well--and to a lesser extent, Aiya. He'd never been exposed to such a climate, indeed the lands surrounding Cloudreach were often favored with cool breezes even in summer. As his horse picked its way through the precarious terrain, the animal's jostling flanks combined with the leaden warmth to make Terjal drowsy. His head would bow forward, then snap back abruptly as he tried to regain some alertness.

In the short distance a wide body of water shimmered. The sides of the pool were lined too thickly with overgrowth--not even an arm would slide between the branches and stalks. "We'll have to cross it," Darman shouted over his shoulder. "From the rotted trees sticking up from its middle-point, it appears waist-deep--shallow enough I'll wager."

Something stirred beneath the surface of the water as soon as they entered it.

Suddenly a dirty grey fountain erupted between Darman and Terjal. In the midst of the geyser rose the great, humped skeleton of a mastodon, its yellowed bones all sharp edges and spurs. Rotting vines twisted round its curved ribs like illumination on parchment. Protruding from its ruined jowls were two curved tusks, which the beast jabbed deliberately at Terjal.

Terjal fought to control his suddenly rearing horse and nearly slid from his saddle in the process. After righting himself upon his saddle, Terjal looked up just in time to see the twin tusks once again attempting to hook the flesh beneath his robe. As he urged his mount to back away from the menacing skeleton, a tusk pierced upward through the horse's belly as the animal reared before the mastodon. Terjal felt the edge of one tusk graze his cheek as he ducked his head.

Terjal felt his dying horse slip unnaturally into the water and muck, its hooves cantering almost drunkenly in a vain attempt to stay upright. Knowing his horse was doomed and might crush the conjurer beneath its weight, Terjal kicked free of the stirrups and tried to dismount. Before he could get clear of the horse, the animal lurched suddenly against him in a final twist of death--pain. His balance lost, Terjal fell, belly forward, into the murky water.

###

Darman had his own problems.

The fountain of water startled his horse so that it nearly heaved both rider and mount into a tangle of exposed roots and decayed wood. Darman brought his frightened horse under control by pulling sharply on its reins. Then he wheeled his mount around, unlimbering his crossbow in one fluid movement.

Darman aimed and fired.

The First Blade growled a curse as he saw the bolt rebound off the mastodon's yellowed skull with no effect. Suddenly a throwing claw flew through the air, striking the skeletal beast's skull. "Strandholt!" Darman shouted at the other Blade. "Hack at it with your poleax!" Then as he sheathed his crossbow with one hand, the other readying his spear, Darman saw Terjal fall forward into the water.

Darman spurred his mount closer to the mastodon as the creature bent its tusks toward the supine conjurer. The First Blade braced his spear between Terjal and the mastodon, hoping to deflect a tusk. From the corner of his eye Darman saw the winking flash of metal.

Bone met metal-shod wood as Strandholt's poleax parried the tusk away from both Darman's spear and the prone Terjal. Darman saw Strandholt lifted into the air as the poleax clacked against the younger Blade's armored chest. With a grunt of surprise and obvious pain Strandholt fell.

Darman saw the opportunity. "Take my hand--quick!" he shouted as he leaned towards Terjal. He saw Terjal's face lift from the watery muck, the conjurer's eyes bulging, mouth gasping for air. Suddenly Terjal's trembling hand reached out and gripped Darman's own. The First Blade shifted in his saddle to counterbalance the conjurer's extra weight as the horse moved slowly, too slowly, away from the mastodon.

A whooshing sound erupted behind Darman.

The horse stumbled and Darman almost lost his hold on Terjal. Glancing downward, the First Blade saw water rushing past him in a backward direction. He did not waste time in trying to guess who'd been responsible for its creation. He only knew that he had to ride until Terjal was safe. Darman's heels jabbed his horse's flanks, spurring the animal to bolt toward a bank of dry earth. Once satisfied that they were away from immediate danger, Darman slid from his horse and laid Terjal upon the ground.

Darman stared in confusion at the look of frantic pain the conjurer wore upon his face.

###

Thrasher had moved to the fore of the battle once Strandholt had been felled by the beast.

The Outsider now stood in the shadow of the mastodon. Head thrown back, arms outspread, a scarecrow buffeted by nonexistent winds, Thrasher loosed a screech heavenward. In response, two falcons sped down from the sky and began pecking mercilessly at the skeletal pachyderm with their beaks, beating at it with their wings.

Distracted by the aerial assault, the mastodon shook its great head violently from side to side. A tusk cuffed a falcon, turning the bird into a bundle of bloody feathers which bounced off a tree trunk and into the churning water.

Before the mastodon had a chance to dispatch the second falcon, Thrasher drew the flail strapped to his back and struck high upon the creature's leg. The Outsider felt the blow hit home as the blunt force of it traveled up his forearm, causing his limb to shiver. He watched as his handiwork caused cracks to spread from the flail's impact point upon the skeleton's thigh bone.

Thrasher danced aside as the mastodon attacked, its rage seemingly heightened by the damage done to its leg. But Thrasher saw that the creature's movement was now hindered, and it moved slowly--slowly enough for the second falcon to flutter about the beast's thrusting head, a distracting flying object.

As a tusk plunged past him, Thrasher smacked it hard with his flail. I'm sick of dodging this lone point, the Outsider thought to himself as he dashed the flail once again upon the tusk. Thrasher grunted in satisfaction as, with a brittle crack, the tusk broke in two. The beast, howling rage for the loss of a tusk, bore down upon Thrasher and rammed the Outsider with its wide skull.

Surprised by the sudden move, Thrasher could not dodge the attack in time. His leg took the brunt of the blow. With his leg now bent at an unnatural angle, the pain a white heat nearly visible in its intensity, Thrasher knew the limb was broken. He tightened his grip on the flail, hoping to keep himself upright as he felt the leg collapsing beneath him. But the flail was useless as cane and Thrasher sank quickly into the mud along the pool's bank.

As he lay in the stagnant mud, his hands seeking something he might use to haul himself upright, Thrasher glanced up in time to see a large bony foot looming above him. The Outsider felt his heart surge to his throat as the foot fell towards his chest.

Red threads, as thick as worms, suddenly appeared in the air between Thrasher and the beast's plunging foot, slowing the limb's descent. Thrasher saw his opportunity and rolled away from danger, panting, as the mastodon's foot, guided by the threads, landed a mere three feet away from him.

For the first time in his life, Thrasher was grateful to be in the company of spellweavers.

###

Aiya watched as her handiwork spared Thrasher a crushed chest. Now she turned her attention to the ropes she had spell--tossed upon the mastodon while Thrasher had worked upon the beast with his flail. Gasping, she tugged hard at the rope hoping to topple the beast. No good, she realized as the last vestiges of her slowing--spell disappeared--the spell lasted long enough only for Thrasher to escape, but not long enough to halt the beast completely.

Aiya shifted her booted feet, seeking better traction in the slick grey mud. She tugged once more, putting every ounce of body weight behind the action. Still the creature proved too strong for her to bring it to the ground. But I can hinder its movement, she thought as she continued to pull upon the rope.

With her free hand Aiya reached down to her belt and found the pouch containing the red dust. From the pouch she extracted a pinch of the glimmering powder and tossed it at the at the mastodon. "Go now to entangle," she sang as the dust flew to its mark, "to snare, to strangle!"

The dust began to lengthen into a gleaming scarlet rope, circling the skeleton several times before closing in on the beast. For a moment Aiya thought the conjured rope might miss its target, but a sharp tug on the solid rope still clenched in her fist pulled the skeleton into the rope's path. The solid rope hit the mastodon's bones with a sound like wet carpet clapped upon cobblestones.

One more spell-strengthened pull and the mastodon was clear of Thrasher. Aiya allowed herself one brief sigh of relief as she watched the Outsider roll clear of the beast.

###

Peering through the water veil of his own creation, Shankal saw Thrasher's fall, Aiya's efforts to save him, and Strandholt's relentless strikes against the skeletal beast.

And he saw Darman clutching Terjal. Terjal was barely moving, save to clutch at his throat.

Shankal slid deftly from his horse and ran to Arjas, who was still astride his own. "I wanted to avoid this," Shankal said quickly as he looked up at the Blade, "but now there's little choice. You'll have to aid Strandholt and Aiya in fighting the beast--bad knee and all. I've got to help Terjal."

"I was going to join the fray with or without your approval, healer," Arjas growled, his eyes crinkling from the pain steeping his knee. Then, looking past the aquamancer and at the beast, he swore, "He's mine!" And with that oath Arjas unsheathed his scimitar and held the weapon aloft, slicing the air menacingly. "And don't worry: I'll take care not to get unhorsed." Then the Blade urged his mount into a quick canter toward the beast.

With a blur of his hand, Shankal made the wall of water a shield between himself and the mastodon as he headed toward Darman and Terjal.

###

Terjal knew he'd done more than simply fall into water and mud. He'd swallowed something--but whatever it was, it seemed determined not to travel down to his stomach and become digested. Instead it clung to the soft tissue inside his throat like a flea to a dog's back. It was obviously a parasite: a slick, moist thing that writhed against his flesh as it tried to gain better hold upon him. And the thing seemed to be expanding, cutting off his breath.

Terjal turned abruptly in the muddy water as if he'd been lashed, his back arching as his hands went instinctively to his throat. He tried to cough the thing up, but couldn't get enough air into his lungs--he had just enough breath to keep himself alive. Terjal felt his pulse hammer in his forehead and darkness begin to edge his vision.

With his sight and hearing quickly dissolving, Terjal barely saw Darman's scarred hand reaching for him, barely heard his First Blade implore him to grab at his hand.

Terjal aimed his own trembling hand toward Darman and the First Blade caught it, hauling the conjurer up in one powerful movement. Terjal collapsed in Darman's arms like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

Before he lost consciousness, Terjal saw another face hover above him.

###

Shankal took Terjal's face in his hands and looked into the conjurer's mouth. The spellcaster's mouth was opening and closing like a fish brought out of water. As he gasped for breath, Terjal's hands convulsively clawed at his throat. "Hold him still," Shankal told Darman. "Better yet, keep his hands from raking his throat or he'll bleed to death, too."

"What's got him?" Darman demanded, his voice angrily insistent.

"What's got him," Shankal explained quickly as he peered deeper into Terjal's mouth, his thumbs hooked in the corners of the conjurer's mouth to hold it open, "is a throat leech. I've seen plenty of them where I come from. Give me a quarrel...quick!"

Darman handed the aquamancer his slimmest quarrel. "What are you going to do to...that thing?"

"I'm going to puncture the little beastie," Shankal explained, perhaps a trifle gleefully. The aquamancer slid the quarrel into Terjal's throat slowly at first, then jabbed sharply. Blood burst from the conjurer's mouth in a large clot. "This won't kill it--but Terjal will be able to breath and--"

"No!" Darman shouted. "You'll kill it now! Get it out of him!"

Shankal glared at Darman. The man's devotion to his employer was beginning to prey on the aquamancer's nerves. "I can take the leech out later--"

"No," Darman said, his voice severe and even. "If you can take it out later, you can take it out now."

"Look," Shankal inclined his head at Terjal, "he's breathing now. Shall we ask him if he wants it out now while we're fighting a marauding beast, or later when the marauding beast is defeated? Do you no longer trust my judgment as once before?"

Darman reached a hand out and grabbed a fistful of Shankal's tunic. "Your judgment is of no matter--you must only obey my order. Do not forget that Terjal Rakmir is your benefactor. Take the damned thing out NOW!"

Shankal shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "Then I have little but to obey," he replied, not looking at Darman. "Yet should I stab his throat along with the leech, I won't count it my fault."

"I wouldn't have insisted," Darman said, his gruff voice edged with tiny bit of compassion, "if I didn't think you could do it proper."

The aquamancer didn't answer as he took Terjal's jaw in his hand once again and squeezed the conjurer's mouth open. Again he inserted the quarrel, more carefully this time. Once the quarrel was withdrawn, he slid two fingers into Terjal's mouth. "Massage his throat upward, there, just under that lump. Hard," he told Darman.

Darman gingerly placed his fingers beneath the lump undulating beneath the flesh of Terjal's throat and glared darkly at Shankal.

"Hard," the aquamancer reminded him. "Now."

Darman began to rub beneath the lump in a circular motion. When the lump had traveled to just under Terjal's chin, Shankal made as if to pluck the creature from the conjurer's throat. The thing fairly leaped from Terjal's mouth and Shankal caught it in mid air. The aquamancer held the black and glistening creature aloft like a trophy as it squirmed and writhed in his grasp. Then, looking Darman levelly in the eye, a wide grin splitting his lips, Shankal crushed the leech to a bloody pulp and flung its corpse into the muck. "Well, it's out. Satisfied?"

###

Terjal gained consciousness just in time to join in the attack of the mastodon. But not before he assured Shankal and Darman that he was up to it. "I just have to pull a little more air into my lungs," he said earnestly in rough, scabbed voice, spitting mouthfuls of blood between words. "I'm well enough--but neither of us will be if I don't add my spell energy to the fray."

"Well," Shankal said, winking at Darman over Terjal's head, "not without me, either. I'm used to this kind of environment, remember?"

Terjal and two men got quickly to their feet. They watched as Strandholt, back atop his mount, circled the mastodon, sheering a rib off the skeleton with his poleax as he made his turn. "Pull!" the Outsider shouted as the mastodon began to teeter slightly. "Keep it off balance!"

Even Arjas, his knee surely howling pain up his thigh, circled the beast as he rode his horse, hacking at the skeleton's rear legs with his scimitar. "That's it," the Blade yelled back. "Set the beast to stumbling so it won't attack us!"

Terjal saw bright red strands of energy tethering the mastodon. The lines all lead to Aiya as she aimed splayed fingers at the beast, energy flowing from their tips and anchoring the threads in a continuous stream to the skeleton. She seemed to be straining against the back surge of energy, a booted foot wedged forward within the crook of a tree, the other foot braced behind her in a fencing pose.

"Aiya won't be able to maintain that amount of spell energy for long," Terjal said, turning to Shankal. "If you can hold the creature still, I expect I can knock it down."

"It's time," the aquamancer answered somberly, "to bring a little cold to this hot, blistering swamp." Shankal knelt down and scooped up a single handful of brackish water. With his other hand he scrabbled a few crystals from one of his pouches and dribbled the glittering fragments into the water cradled within his palm. As he blew gently upon his hand, the water formed into a curved piece of ice.

Shankal hurled the bit of ice into the water surrounding the mastodon. Suddenly the water began to still. "Get out of the water! Now!" the aquamancer shouted to the attacking Blades. Just as the two warriors spurred their mounts out of the muck, the water became solid.

With the mastodon now unable to make even the most feeble movement, Terjal saw his chance.

Terjal bunched his right hand into a tight, trembling fist and brought it straight out before him. Then he swept his left hand over his right fist as if he were grazing it with a veil. Suddenly a huge, translucent replica of his own fist, twenty times normal size, flowed from his fleshed one, bearing directly toward the mastodon. His hand still tingling from the conjuration, Terjal watched as the diaphanous fist flew to its mark.

The skeleton, caught in the frozen water, was unable to escape the conjured fist's blows upon it. Terjal shadow-boxed the air as he controlled the phantom fist, allowing it to smash at the mastodon from all sides. Each strike caused the skeleton to crumple into itself until the fourth, and final, blow shattered it completely. Shards of bone shot through the dense morning air, some fragments embedding themselves in surrounding tree trunks.

Terjal closed his eyes for a moment as he felt his muscles relax, letting the translucent fist dissolve in the air. He felt his mind swaying along with his body and he sank abruptly to his knees. I've lost both spell energy and blood in a very short time, he thought to himself as he folded his arms loosely across his chest, trying to steady himself. When he opened his eyes he found Aiya kneeling before him, worry creasing her brow.

"Terjal, are you all right?" Aiya asked quietly, her voice breaking a little. Her hand came up and touched the edge of his beard lightly with the tips of her fingers.

Terjal, unmindful that several pairs of curious eyes were watching them, took Aiya's hand in both of his own, his fingers weaving through hers. "I'm the Master of Cloudreach: I'm supposed to recover quickly," he answered brightly, his voice creaking like an untuned instrument.

"What happened to your voice?" Aiya asked as she shot a quick glance at Shankal and Darman.

Shankal spoke up. "He swallowed a throat leech when he fell into the muck." Then, glancing squarely at Darman, added, "He wouldn't have lost so much blood if I'd been able to extract the beastie after we'd destroyed the mastodon."

Darman's face betrayed no emotion at Shankal's biting accusation. Instead, the First Blade turned to Terjal. "I'll fetch Thrasher. It seems Shankal will be seeing to the healing of another injured leg."

Terjal, eager to alter the direction of the conversation--for he disliked the ill tone between Shankal and his First Blade, said, "We must keep moving. Our spell activity is sure to have alerted the rogue spellcaster we seek--now that he knows the extent of our power, he might adjust his own accordingly. The skeletal mastodon appeared to have been a random trap, one of many no doubt planted throughout the Grip."

Terjal stood up, bringing Aiya to her feet with him. For a moment he held her elbows gently, wanting nothing more than to bury his face in her dark, fragrant hair. Aiya smiled at him reassuringly. She knows, he thought as he returned her smile. Then he turned abruptly to Strandholt. "My horse--it was felled by the mastodon...?"

Strandholt shook his head sadly. "The horse was gutted. It was dead as soon as it hit the water with you."

Terjal sighed deeply. "Well, it would seem that once again I am without a horse of my own. I really do not relish the prospect of riding a mule again."

Aiya grinned. "You don't have to. You can ride with me--as long as you don't mind my having the reins."

Terjal returned Aiya's grin. "And as long as you don't mind having a gravelly voiced, sodden-clothed conjurer sitting behind you."

Aiya smiled as she began to empty the contents of a small pouch into her opened palm. "I can manage the wet clothing--for the heat of the swamp won't dry the cloth before you've taken ill." Then she wound her arm in a counterclockwise circle; stopping in mid-swing she tossed the thick powder upon Terjal.

Terjal felt his robe begin to dry from the outside until the crisp warmth finally touched the skin beneath the garments. But the warmth wasn't entirely the work of the powder Aiya had tossed upon him.

Terjal guessed that somehow Aiya knew as well.

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