swinging in a deadly arc. Bits and pieces of the Wisteron flew
as it pressed the big Rover back. Triss appeared, hacking wildly,
cutting one of the monster’s legs out from under it with a bone-
jarring blow. Shouts and cries filled the fetid air.
But the Wisteron was the largest and strongest of all Mor-
rowindl’s demons, of any Shadowen birthed in the lapse of the
Elven magic’s use, and it was the equal of them all. It whipped
its tail against Triss and knocked him thirty feet to land in a
crumpled heap. When Garth missed in a quick cut at its head,
the beast sliced through clothing and flesh with one black-clawed
limb and ripped the broadsword away. Garth had his short
sword out in an instant, but a second blow sent him reeling
back, tumbling over Wren to land helplessly on his back.
They would have been lost then if not for Faun. Terrified
for Wren, who lay exposed now in the Wisteron’s path, the Tree
Squeak launched itself directly into the monster’s face, a shriek-
ing ball of fur, tiny hands tearing and ripping. The Wisteron
was caught by surprise, flinched instinctively, and drew back. It
reached for the Tree Squeak, anxious to crush this insignificant
threat, but Faun was too quick, already scrambling along the
monster’s ridged back. The Wisteron twisted about in an effort
to catch it, incensed.
Get up’ Wren told herself, fighting to stand. The Elfstones
were white heat in her tightened hand.
Then Garth was back, ragged and bloodied, broadsword
flashing against the light. One massive stroke knocked the Wis-
teron back on two legs. A second almost severed one arm. The
Wisteron hissed and writhed, curling back on itself. Faun leapt
free and dashed away. Garth swung the broadsword in a deadly
arc, blade sweeping, cutting, rending the air.
Wren staggered to her feet, the white heat of the Elfstones
transferring from her hand to her chest, then deep into her
heart.
Before her lay the Ruhk Staff, fallen from Garth’s hand.
Abruptly the Wisteron spun and about and spit a stream of
liquid poison at Garth. This time the big man wasn’t quick
enough, and it struck him in the chest, burning like acid. He
dropped to the mud in agony, rolling to cleanse himself.
The Wisteron was on him instantly. One clawed limb pinned
him to the earth and began to press.
With both hands cupped about the Elfstones, Wren called
forth the fire one final time. It exploded out of her with such
force that it rocked her backward like the blow of a fist. The
Wicteron was struck full on, picked up like deadwood and spun
helplessly away. Fire enveloped it, a raging inferno. Wren
pressed forward, the white heat of the magic reflecting in her
eyes. Still the Wisteron struggled to break free, fighting to reach
the girl. Between them, Garth raised himself to his hands and
knees, blood everywhere, the broken blade of the broadsword
gripped in one hand. For Wren, everything slowed to a crawl,
a dream that was happening only in her mind. Triss was a vague
shape stumbling back out of the mist, Stresa a voice without a
body, Faun a memory, and the world a shifting, endless haze.
Garth’s dark eyes looked up at her from his ragged, broken
form. At her feet lay the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, the last
hope of the Elven people, their vessel of safekeeping, their
chance at life. She shrugged it all away and buried herself in the
power of the Elfstones, in the magic of her blood, shaping it,
directing it, and knowing in some dark, secretive place that her
own chance at life had come down to this.
Before her, the Wisteron surged back to its feet.
Help me! she cried out in the silence of her mind.
Then she directed the fire against the mud on which the
Wisteron stood, melting it to soup, to a mire as liquid and yield-
ing as quicksand. The Wisteron lurched forward and sank to its
knees. The mud bubbled and spit like Killeshan’s flow, sucking
at the thing that floundered within it. The Wisteron hissed and