"You did not tell him," Belli'mar Juraviel said to Pony.

"There is a time and place, and I do not think the eve of a battle is it," Pony replied harshly, though Juraviel had only stated a fact and there had been no hint of accusation in his tone.

Pony meant to go on, mostly to tell the elf that this issue was none of his affair, but lightning split the overcast sky, startling her. A late autumn storm churned in the dark clouds overhead.

"The child is Elbryan's as much as yours," the elf said calmly as the thunder rumbled. "He has a right to know before the battle is fought."

"I will tell him when and where I choose," Pony retorted.

"You did let him know that you mean to go to Palmaris, not to Dun-dalis?" Juraviel inquired.

Pony nodded and closed her eyes. When Juraviel had left her with Elbryan earlier that day, she had explained to the ranger that she needed to return to Palmaris, to try to learn of Roger's fate and to check on Belster at Fellowship Way. She had told Elbryan that she needed to put her grief to rest, and only a visit to those surroundings, she believed, could accomplish the task.

Elbryan had not responded well. Conjuring his image now - his eyes so full of confusion, hurt, and fear for her - pained her greatly.

"And you will tell him about the child before you leave?" Juraviel pressed.

"And then he will abandon the caravan to Dundalis," Pony replied sar-castically. "He will forget the task at hand and spend his days instead at my side, tending to needs I do not have."

Juraviel backed off a bit and wrapped his slender chin with delicate fin-gers, studying her.

"Elbryan and I will be back together soon enough," Pony explained, her voice now calm and reassuring. She understood the elf's concern for her and for her relationship with Elbryan. Juraviel was their good friend, and seeing him so troubled only reminded Pony that she must carefully examine these most important decisions.

"The child will not be born until the turn of spring to summer," Pony went on. "That will give Elbryan plenty of time - "

"More time if he was told now," Juraviel interrupted.

"I do not know if the child will survive," Pony said.

"Considering your power with the gemstones, it is unlikely that any harm will come to the babe," Juraviel replied.

"Power," Pony scoffed. "Yes, the power to keep me at the top of the ridge, watching others fight the battles."

"Do not lessen the credit deserved by a healer," Juraviel started to argue.

But Pony had turned away, hardly listening. She and Elbryan had to keep her use of the magic stones secret, especially now that Palmaris garrison sol-diers had arrived. Even though the secular-serving Kingsmen were the only state force in the region, Pony had wisely limited her public use of the stones. Sooner or later, word would reach this far north that she and Elbryan were fugitives of the Church. Pony used the stones only to heal those wounded in battle; even then, she disguised her gemstone work by also applying healing salves and bandages, secretly finishing the task with hematite. Ironically, that healing proficiency had trapped Pony behind the melee during the fighting; Captain Kilronney was convinced she was too valuable to risk. Given Pony's surly mood, her almost-desperate hunger for revenge, she wasn't pleased with her role.

"Is my own role any greater?" the elf asked. "I cannot show myself before the Kingsmen, and am thus relegated to the position of private pre-battle scout for Nightbird."

"And you have been saying ever since we left the mountains around Andur'Blough Inninness that this war was not the business of the Touel'-alfar," Pony shot back angrily.

"Ah, but the little ones're always sayin' such things," came a familiar voice from the shadows. Bradwarden, the huge centaur, trotted into the small clearing beside the pair. "Never meanin' it, for the elves're really thinkin' that everythin' in all the world is their business!"

Pony couldn't help but smile back at the grinning centaur. Though Bradwarden could be a fierce foe, his face always seemed to beam within that bushy ring of curly black hair and beard.

"Ah, me little Pony," the centaur went on, "suren that I'm hearin' yer words o' frustration. I been watchin' fight after fight against the stinkin' dwarfs and goblins, and canno' even lift me club to help!"

"You wear a distinctive mantle," Juraviel said dryly.

"One ye're wishin' yerself might wear," the centaur replied.

Juraviel laughed in response, and then he bid farewell to the pair, explaining that he had to report to Elbryan on the final movements of the powrie band.

"The dwarves're makin' it easy this time," the centaur said to Pony when they were alone.

"You have seen them? "

"In a cave in a rocky dell, not two miles west o' Caer Tinella," Bradwarden explained. "I'm knowin' the place well, and knowin' that there's only one entrance to their chosen ground. I'm thinkin' that the dwarves haven't decided which way they mean to go. Some're lookin' for a fight, no doubt, since powries're almost always lookin' for a fight. But most're likely thinkin' that it's past time to go home."

"How defensible is the cave?" Pony asked, her gaze inadvertently turning west.

"Not so, if Nightbird catches 'em in there," the centaur replied. "The dwarves'd hold for some time against a siege, dependin' on how much food they brought with 'em, but they'd not be gettin' out o' there if Nightbird and the soldiers set themselves in front o' the damn hole. Me thinkin's that the dwarves're not plannin' to stay in there for long, and have no idea that they been seen. Juraviel will tell Nightbird to hit at them before dawn."

"Dawn is still many hours away," Pony remarked slyly, grinning at Bradwarden.

The centaur matched Pony's smile. "Seems the least we can do is seal the ugly dwarves up in their hole," he agreed.

The storm broke soon after dusk, a wind-driven rain lifting a swirling fog about the skeletal trees, a preternatural scene brilliantly lit by every bolt of lightning. Pony's spirit moved easily through this storm, a mere swirl in the fog, invisible to the eyes of any mortal creature. She did several circuits of the dell Bradwarden had indicated, even went inside the cave to count forty-three powries - a larger group than the scouts had indicated - and to confirm Bradwarden's claim that there was indeed only one way out of the place. That single entrance intrigued her, and she lingered beneath the arch for quite a while, studying the heavy outcropping of loose-fitting stones above. Then she went back into the forest. She found only five powries outside, but was not surprised at the meager guard. The dwarves could not have expected that any army would come against them in this wild storm.

Her spirit drifted back to her waiting body, seated in another cave some miles distant. Bradwarden stood patient sentry in the doorway, while Greystone, Pony's beautiful, well-muscled horse, stood very still inside the cave, ears flattened.

"We can get right to the cave entrance with only minimal resistance," she announced.

Bradwarden turned at the sound of her voice. A bolt of lightning hit in the distance behind him, momentarily outlining his large, powerful frame. Greystone nickered and shifted nervously.

"Ye might want to be leavin' yer horse," the centaur remarked. "He's findin' the night a bit too fitful for his likin'."

Pony rose and went to the stallion, stroking his muscled neck and trying to calm him. "Not so long a walk," she said.

"Ah, but I'll let ye ride on me back instead," the centaur offered. "Now tell me what ye seen."

"Two groups of two guards each," Pony explained, "looking more for shelter than for enemies. Both are out about a hundred yards from the cave, one to the left, one to the right. A fifth powrie is settled in the rocks above the cave entrance."

"The sound o' the storm'll cover our first attacks," Bradwarden reasoned.

"Right to the cave entrance without them even knowing," Pony said with a wicked smile. Another bolt of lightning thundered into the forest night, a fitting accentuation of her dangerous mood.

The clip-clop of hooves sounded in the ears of the tense powrie sen-tries. The two powries, up to now more concerned with hiding from the driving rain than with sentry duty, tightly clutched their weapons - a small crossbow and a war hammer - and came around the cluster of trees, peer-ing through the rain. They made out the hindquarters of a large horse, and breathed a bit easier when they noted that the animal had no rider and no saddle.

"Just a wild one," one whispered.

The other raised his crossbow.

"Nah, don't ye be shootin' it!" his companion grumbled. "Ye'll just wing the thing, and then it'll give us a long chase. I'll give it a good thunk on the head, and then we's be eatin' horsie tonight!"

The two powries crept up side by side, their smiles widening as they neared the apparently unsuspecting creature. They could not make out the horse's neck and head, for it was bent forward into some brush. Another bolt of lightning split the sky in a brilliant flash, followed immediately by a ground-shaking thunderclap.

The two dwarves jumped when the centaur backed out of the brush sud-denly, throwing off the blanket he had used to cover his upper torso.

With one hand Bradwarden grabbed the closest powrie, the one with the crossbow, by the top of his head and lifted the dwarf from the ground. The centaur then dropped him, batting the tumbling dwarf with his huge club, launching him a dozen feet through the air.

The second powrie reacted quickly, rushing right in and smashing at the centaur's ribs with his hammer, a blow that got through Bradwarden's defense and landed hard.

But the powerful Bradwarden, so incensed that these two had been talking about eating horse meat, ignored the blow. He pivoted, bringing his club up over his shoulder. "Ye horse-eatin' goblin kisser!" he roared. Then straight down came the club onto the powrie's bloodred cap, slamming the dwarf so hard that the creature's knees and ankles buckled outward with loud popping sounds. The war hammer fell to the ground, the powrie's arms flapping weirdly a few times. Then the dwarf's body simply folded up.

A groan from the side alerted Bradwarden that the first dwarf was not quite dead. The centaur started for him at once but had to stop and stretch; the muscles on the side of his chest where the powrie had hit him were tightening as the bruise swelled, and Bradwarden feared the blow might have broken a rib or two. Only then, looking down, did Bradwarden realize he had a rather serious gash as well, his blood dripping down his side.

The sight angered him all the more. His respect for the tough powries increased as he neared his first victim, for the little wretch had struggled to his feet and was trying hard to find some defensive posture.

Bradwarden trampled the dwarf to the ground and added a couple of solid kicks to his head as he passed.

But the powrie struggled back to his feet.

Bradwarden was more amused than concerned. He came in hard, club flying fast, and knocked the dwarf into a tumble, then followed and tram-pled it down for good.

Pony's approach toward the two dwarves in the forest to the right of the cave entrance was much more cautious. She used the soul stone again to walk out of her body and pinpoint their location. Each was perched on a low branch, in trees about ten yards apart, just as they had been in her first scouting mission. She let her spirit linger until she was convinced the powries would not move anytime soon and also to inspect the dwarves' weapons and possessions. Neither carried a crossbow, she was glad to see: one had a short sword sheathed on his hip, while the other cradled a club in its arms.

Pony's spirit quickly inspected the area and then went back to her corpo-real form. She knew she could eliminate these two quietly and efficiently with gemstones, but decided against that course, wanting to put Defender to good use. Despite Bradwarden's suggestion, she had ridden Greystone but had left him tethered in a sheltered pine grove not far away. The night was simply too wild for her to trust her horse's responses, and so she walked now, using the wind and the almost-constant thunder to cover any noise.

After she identified the trees she knew held the powries, she stopped and crouched beside a thick elm. In a few moments, she could make out the dark forms of the huddled dwarves. Out came Defender, the magical sword which had once belonged to Connor Bildeborough. Its crosspiece was set with magnetites, lodestones, and Pony also held one in her free hand. Foot by foot, she crept nearer to the dwarf on the right, the one with the sword.

"Yach, get back to yer post!" the powrie growled at her when she was barely a yard away, obviously mistaking her for his companion.

Pony stabbed upward, Defender digging deep into the powrie's leg.

Down hopped the dwarf, sword slashing, but Pony was already backing, waving Defender and turning to the other powrie as it hopped down from its perch.

The sword-wielding powrie attacked powerfully, sword slashing in wild arcs, and Pony retreated to the left, Defender only occasionally making contact with the powrie's wildly swinging short sword. Through the lodestone, she focused her mind on a metal choker the second powrie wore, a silver skull set in the center of its neck.

Around the tree came the second powrie, roaring in glee, club up over his head. Up, too, came Pony's hand, and she opened wide her fingers and sent her magical powers flowing into the magnetite.

Suddenly there came a snapping sound, then another, and the club- wielding dwarf was staggering backward, his roars lost in gurgles, as a crimson mist erupted from his throat.

"Yach, ye witch!" the first powrie cried, charging ahead.

Now Pony turned, continuing her defense through a few twists and turns, letting the dwarf play out its anger, easily parrying or simply avoiding the swings of his shorter blade. The powrie rushed at her, his blade cutting downward diagonally.

Pony flipped Defender to her left hand and brought it up fast, stopping the dwarf's sword short. Then, with a twist of her wrist, she flicked her blade over, then under, the dwarf's. A second twist of her wrist brought her sword in line, and she lunged, stabbing the dwarf's shoulder. Pony flipped her sword back to her right hand as she spun left, Defender smacking the stubborn powrie's pursuing blade hard.

She stopped in mid-turn, stepping ahead suddenly with her right foot, sliding her sword into the dwarf's belly. She retreated as the dwarf howled and doubled up, and then came forward again, powerfully stabbing the powrie in the chest. Pony had complete control now, and she could have finished the fight quickly with a stab to the dwarf's throat or heart, but she was enjoying this moment, was playing out her rage inch by painful inch.

Again and again, the woman thrust her blade into the powrie, never wounding mortally. She had hit the dwarf nearly a dozen times by the time Bradwarden arrived, leading Greystone by the reins.

"Be done with it, then," the centaur remarked, recognizing the macabre game. "I think I'm needin' a bit o' yer magic."

Pony glanced at her friend, her anger dissipated by the wheeze in his voice, and she saw the red stain along the side of Bradwarden's humanlike torso. She drove Defender deep into the powrie's chest, slipping the tip between ribs and into the creature's heart.

She put the soul stone to its healing work on Bradwarden immediately, and found to her relief that the centaur was not badly injured.

"On we go," Bradwarden said determinedly, now taking up his huge bow and a bolt that more resembled a spear than an arrow.

Pony held up a hand and moved to the club-wielding powrie lying at the base of the nearby tree. She bent low to inspect the hole neatly blasted through the silver skull pendant and the lodestone's exit hole at the back of the creature's neck. Standing straight, she then examined the tree and found that her flying gemstone had driven itself deep into the trunk. With a sigh, Pony lifted her sword and began chipping at the hole, trying to extract the magnetite. "I will lose this one some day," she explained to the centaur.

Bradwarden nodded. "But tell me," he asked, "can ye use the stone for repellin' metal as well as ye use it for attractin'?"

Pony looked at her friend curiously and nodded. The magnetite gemstones along the hilt of Defender were enchanted, and Pony had used their magic both ways, to attract an opponent's blade that she might powerfully parry, and to repel any of her foe's defensive maneuvers.

"I might help ye in findin' a better use for the stone, then," the centaur said slyly. "But that's talk for another day."

It took Pony several minutes, but finally she dug out the stone. She flipped the blanket back over Bradwarden's broad shoulders, and the cen-taur dipped his telltale human torso low and led on. Pony mounted Greystone and followed, moving from tree to tree, scouting in case any powries had heard the commotion. She thought to slip back into the hematite and scout out of body again, but decided to save her remaining magical energies to use on the cave entrance with the piece of graphite she now held in hand. When a flash of lightning lit up the area near the cave entrance Pony and Bradwarden spotted the remaining powrie sentry - and the dwarf spotted them, too. He skittered down the rocky outcropping, landing on his feet and turning to call his kin.

Bradwarden's huge arrow took the powrie in the back, lifted him off his feet, and sent him flying ten feet to slam into the stones beside the cave entrance. The centaur had his bow leveled again right away, aimed at that dark hole in the hill, waiting for any other enemies to show their ugly faces.

Pony calmly walked by him, arm extended.

"Yach, what're ye about out there?" came a call from within.

Pony thought of her parents, murdered in Dundalis; of her second family, the Chilichunks, tortured to death by the evil Church leaders. And most of all, Pony recalled the images of the demonically possessed corpses of Graevis and Pettibwa, saw again that horrible moment, felt again the sick-ness, the revulsion. Her rage mounted and was transformed into magical energy that flowed from her hand into the graphite, building the power within the stone to explosive levels. Pony held on until all the air around her was tingling with magical energy, until her rain-matted hair began to fly wildly from the mounting static electricity.

Then she loosed a streaking blast of white light, thundering straight through the cave entrance, exploding in the cave in a burst of blinding energy, instantaneously ricocheting from stone wall to stone wall. Powries howled and screamed in agony; and, spurred by that wonderful sound, Pony loosed another bolt, equally lethal.

The thunder echoed for several seconds within the cave, and then a powrie staggered out the entrance - only to be driven back at the end of a flying centaur arrow.

More dwarves scrambled for the exit - and Pony's next blast laid them low.

On and on, her magical assault continued, bolt after bolt smashing into the cave. The residual rumbles echoed; chunks of rock and dust fell from the overhang above the entrance.

Pony put another blast into the cave, though few cries sounded from within. Those powries still alive were hiding now, she knew, probably flat on their bellies behind stones. Her arm went higher, taking aim at the rocky outcropping, and another tremendous bolt shot forth, slamming hard into loosened stone, followed by another and then a third, bringing the entire front of the hill rolling down in front of the cave.

A few steps behind Pony, Bradwarden lowered his bow and studied his friend closely. She was on the edge of control, he realized, throwing her grief and anger into every mighty bolt as if the destructive magic was somehow purifying her from those demons that haunted her memories.

But Bradwarden had spent many hours beside Pony these last weeks. He understood the depth of those demons and knew that it would take much more than this release of energy and revenge to put the troubled woman at ease. The centaur moved a bit closer. If Pony's strength failed and her legs gave way, Bradwarden would be there to catch her.

"It is too early in the morning for such important talk," King Danube Brock Ursal remarked as he settled behind an enormous plate of toasted bread smothered in sauced beans and topped with poached eggs. Danube was a handsome man, though he had packed an extra thirty pounds onto his already stocky frame over the last three years. His hair and beard were light brown, cut short and neatly trimmed, with just a hint of gray about the sideburns, and his eyes were light gray.

"But my King," Abbot Je'howith protested, "many of the children in Palmaris will not find the luxury of a morning meal this day."

King Danube dropped his silverware roughly to the metal plate, and the others in the room, the secular advisers, shuffled nervously, some uttering words of dismay and even anger.

"The situation in Palmaris is dire, no doubt, but I fear that you exag-gerate," replied Constance Pemblebury, a woman of thirty-five years, the youngest of the advisers and often the most reasonable.

"And I fear that you underestimate - " Je'howith started to respond, but he was interrupted by the sharp voice of Duke Targon Bree Kalas.

"Good Abbot, you act as if Baron Rochefort Bildeborough fed the waifs personally!" the fiery man protested. "And how many have starved in the three months since the man's death?"

Je'howith wasn't surprised in the least that Kalas had come at him so forcefully; he and the man, once the leader of the famed Allheart Brigade, were often at odds, and their shaky relationship had become even more strained since King Danube, over Kalas' vehement protests, had allowed Je'howith to take a contingent of Allheart soldiers with him to the College of Abbots at St.-Mere-Abelle. It was no secret that Je'howith had involved the soldiers in the Church's power struggle, something that Kalas, a man of the King, did not like at all.

"The city lost its baron, his nephew, and its abbot, all in the space of a few weeks," Je'howith argued, looking directly at the King as he spoke -  for the opinion that would matter in the end was that of the King. "And now they have learned, or soon shall, that there is no heir to the barony, no one to carry on the name and legacy of Bildeborough - and understand that Bildeborough is a beloved name indeed in Palmaris. And all of this on the heels of a war that hit that region quite hard. By all accounts, there is great turmoil in Palmaris, which will likely worsen as winter comes on, and that may threaten the loyalty of the folk there."

"What accounts?" Kalas retorted. "Word of the Baron's death was fol-lowed by nothing other than silence. And word that there is no obvious heir arrived only a few days ago. I have heard of no subsequent messengers from Palmaris."

Je'howith looked up at the warrior, his old eyes gleaming dangerously. "The Abellican Order has its ways of communication," he said almost threateningly.

Kalas snorted derisively and narrowed his eyes.

"The city is in trouble," Je'howith went on to King Danube. "And every day we delay in setting order there, the danger of anarchy grows. Already there is talk of looting in the merchant district, and the Behrenese yatols who make their pagan temples on the docks will use this time to their advantage, do not doubt."

"So therein lies the truth of your concerns, Abbot Je'howith," Kalas interrupted. "You fear that the yatol priests of the southern religion will steal some of your flock."

"I do fear such a thing," Je'howith admitted, "and so should the King of Honce-the-Bear."

"Are not the Church and the state separate entities?" Kalas asked, before King Danube had a chance to speak.

The king eyed the man, but made no protest. He pushed his plate away, resigned that he would get no quiet morning meal, and folded his hands before him, letting the two rivals debate.

"They are brothers, hand in hand in Honce-the-Bear," Je'howith agreed, "but not so in Behren. Yatol priests rule the kingdom and dominate every aspect of the lives of the common folk. Let the yatols gain a foothold in Pal-maris, Duke Kalas, and see if your king benefits," he finished, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Duke Kalas grumbled something under his breath and turned away.

"What do you suggest we do?" King Danube asked Je'howith.

"Appoint an interim leader at once," the abbot replied. "It has been too long already, but now that the matter of blood heir is settled, you must act decisively."

King Danube glanced around at the others. "Suggestions?" he asked.

"There are many nobles here suitable for such a position," Kalas replied.

"But few, if any, who would willingly rush to Palmaris at any time of the year, and even less with the solstice fast approaching," Constance Pemble-bury was quick to add. All in the room knew that her words were true. Pal-maris was a rough city, with a harsher climate and many more problems than Ursal, the city of King Danube's court, where the nobles who attended the king lived in absolute luxury. Even the dukes, like Kalas, let their barons rule the distant cities, while they hunted and fished, dined fabu-lously, and chased the ladies here.

"There is one possible choice," Je'howith put in, "a man of great charisma already holding command over much of the city."

"Do not even speak the name!" Kalas protested, but Je'howith would not be dissuaded.

"Any semblance of order remaining in Palmaris is due to the tireless work of Marcalo De'Unnero, the new abbot of St. Precious," he said.

"You want me to bestow the title of baron on an abbot?" King Danube asked skeptically.

"The Church will give De'Unnero an equivalent title," Je'howith explained: "bishop of Palmaris."

"Bishop? "Kalas balked.

"A little-used title in these times," Je'howith explained, "but surely not without precedent. In the early days of the kingdom, bishops were as common as barons and dukes."

"And the distinction between a bishop and an abbot?" King Danube asked.

"The title of bishop confers power equal to that of a secular ruler," Je'howith explained softly.

"But with the bishop answering to the Father Abbot, and not the King," an obviously angry Kalas put in, and Danube's expression darkened at the notion. The others in the room, even cool Constance Pemblebury, bristled and whispered harshly to one another.

"No," Je'howith was quick to respond. "Bishops answer to the Father Abbot on matters of the Church, but to the King alone in matters of state. And I recommend Marcalo De'Unnero highly, King Danube. He is young and full of energy, and perhaps the finest warrior ever to come out of St.-Mere-Abelle - no small boast indeed!"

"Methinks the abbot has overstepped his bounds," Constance remarked. "With all respect, good Je'howith, you ask the King to relinquish much power to the Father Abbot, yet have offered no better reason than avoiding inconvenience to some nobleman who might be appointed to the northern city."

"I offer the King the hand of a friend in a time of desperate need," Je'howith replied.

"Ridiculous!" roared Kalas, and then to the King, he added, "I will secure for you a proper replacement for Baron Bildeborough. A man of the Allheart Brigade, perhaps, or one of the lesser, but deserving nobles. Why, we have a contingent of soldiers in the region already, led by an able-bodied warrior."

King Danube looked from Je'howith to Kalas, seeming unsure.

"And which is more dangerous, I wonder," Je'howith asked slyly, "allowing the partner to aid in a time of great need or strengthening the position of an ambitious underling? One who, perhaps, holds designs on a higher station?"

A stunned Kalas groaned and growled for lack of a reply. His face turned bright red and he clenched his jaw tight, seemingly on the verge of an explosion. Others in the room were equally distressed, but Constance grew more amused by it all.

"I ask you to consider the benefits of a single new ruler in such a time of distress," Je'howith went on, his voice calm. "If you replace Baron Bilde-borough with yet another unknown leader, then the people of Palmaris shall not know what to expect from Church or state. Let them warm to De'Unnero first. They hardly know the man, for he has presided over St. Precious for but one season, and even in that time, Church duties - the College of Abbots, in which your Allheart Brigade played no minor role - " he pointedly reminded, "forced Abbot De'Unnero out of Palmaris for the better part of a month. Yet the city has remained relatively calm, consid-ering the tragedies the folk have suffered."

"You propose the abbot of St. Precious as only an interim leader then?" King Danube asked after a long, thoughtful pause.

"After said interim - with the turn of summer, perhaps - you coulddecide that Palmaris, and you, would be better served by appointing another," Je'howith explained. "But I think that Marcalo De'Unnero will amaze you with his efficiency. He will put the people of Palmaris back into order and hold firm control - strengthening your position."

"What rubbish!" cried Duke Kalas, coming forward to join Je'howith at the King's side. "Surely you do not believe a word of this, my King."

"Do not presume to tell me what I believe," King Danube sternly and coldly replied, backing Kalas off a step or two.

"And you must consider the larger position," Je'howith went on, ignoring Kalas. "The Timberlands must be reopened, perhaps claimed as the domain of Honce-the-Bear."

"Good Je'howith," Constance Pemblebury intervened, "we have a treaty with both Behren and Alpinador that the Timberlands remain open to all three kingdoms."

"And yet the region has long been settled only by folk of Honce-the- Bear," Je'howith replied. "And the war has changed the situation, I believe. The Timberlands, we could argue, now belong to the powries and goblins. Since we will be the ones to drive them from the region, it will be consid-ered conquered land, and under the domain of King Danube Brock Ursal."

"A most clever position," the King admitted, "but a dangerous one."

"All the more reason you now need the Church strong by your side," Je'howith argued, "the same Church that holds influence over many of the barbarians of southern Alpinador. Name De'Unnero as bishop and then the matter of Palmaris no longer need be of concern to you. Let the Abel-lican Church take responsibility should De'Unnero fail and Palmaris fall into turmoil. And if the Bishop succeeds in restoring order and prosperity, then how wise King Danube will seem to his adoring people!"

Again Duke Kalas' face brightened with rage. How dare the abbot of St. Honce so bait the King!

But Danube, never overambitious, though always willing to seize an opportunity for expansion, had already swallowed that bait. Je'howith's offer, seemingly free of risk for Danube, might well help in any expansion of the kingdom northward, and even at worst, seemed to offer Danube insulation from blame. That, above all else, proved too attractive an offer to refuse. And Danube Brock Ursal was impetuous - something Je'howith had long ago learned to exploit. "Interim leader," the King declared. "Then so be it. Let word go forth from Ursal this day that Abbot Marcalo De'Unnero has been named bishop of Palmaris."

Je'howith smiled; Kalas growled.

"And Duke Kalas," King Danube went on, "do send word to your worthy underling in command of the soldiers in the Palmaris region that he is to report to Bishop De'Unnero and to remain with the man until the situation in Palmaris is secure.

"Now leave me!" the King said suddenly, waving his hands at the advisers as if they were troublesome pigeons. "My meal is already cold, I fear."

Abbot Je'howith, still smiling, turned to come face-to-face with Con-stance Pemblebury, who fell into step beside him and accompanied him out of the room. "Well done," she congratulated him when they were alone.

"You speak as if I have gained something," Je'howith protested. "I only wish to serve my King."

"You only wish to serve the Father Abbot," Constance replied with a chuckle.

"Little service if King Danube decides that Marcalo De'Unnero is not the man to rule Palmaris," Je'howith reasoned.

"A difficult decision, since a bishop, by law and tradition, can only be removed by agreement of the king and the Father Abbot," Constance said slyly.

That set Je'howith back on his heels - until he considered the fact that the woman had not mentioned that little matter of lawbefore King Danube's proclamation.

"Fear not, Abbot Je'howith," the woman said. "I understand that the balance of power will inevitably shift after a war, win or lose, and I am prag-matic enough to recognize the power of the Abellican Church over people battered by war. Is there a family in all the northern reaches of Honce-the-Bear which has not lost one of its own? And grieving people, alas, are more drawn toward empty promises of eternal life than to practical material gains."

"Empty promises?" the abbot remarked, his tone one of astonishment, showing that he considered the woman on the verge of heresy.

Constance let the matter pass. "St.-Mere-Abelle will dominate Palmaris and all the northland - and that will not be a bad thing for King Danube through the difficult process of reopening the Timberlands and designing a new - if there indeed is to be a new - agreement with our neighboring kingdoms."

"And after the Timberlands are secured?"

Constance shrugged. "I choose not to go against the Church," was her simple reply.

"And in return for your assistance?"

Now the woman laughed aloud. "There are enough spoils from the backs of common laborers to secure a luxurious existence for all of us," she said. "There is an old saying about the buttering of bread; I am wise enough to understand that the Father Abbot might now have a hand on that knife."

Now Abbot Je'howith was smiling widely. He didn't have an ally here, he understood, but neither did he have a foe. That was the way it would be with many of the nobles, he believed, for they were men and women who had never engaged in any serious matters before the dactyl had awakened.

He left Constance then, needing privacy while he prepared himself for the next spiritual visit of the Father Abbot. Markwart would be pleased, but Je'howith knew that the situation remained tentative, that there remained a few, like Duke Kalas, who would never accept any gains the Church made at King Danube's expense.

It would be an interesting year.

By dawn, the rain had increased again, but the wind had died. The air was unseasonably warm, and a good thing it was, for otherwise several feet of snow would have buried the area and any plans for a journey south to Palmaris would have had to be put off by several weeks.

Pony and Bradwarden were still at the powrie cave. They had no idea how many dwarves might still be alive, but every now and then a rock shifted as a dwarf tried to dig out. At first Bradwarden took care of those attempts, clubbing hard on the stone, then laughing uproariously at the stream of heavily accented curses coming back out at him.

Now it was Pony's turn to keep watch, along with Juraviel, who had joined the companions an hour earlier. Bradwarden was scouring the nearby forest, collecting broken tree limbs for kindling and larger logs for long burning.

"Got me a good one this time," the centaur announced on one return.

Pony and Juraviel chuckled, for the tree the powerful centaur was drag-ging behind him must have stood twenty feet tall.

"A good one if you mean to batter down a castle door," Juraviel replied.

"And I just might, but from the inside, most likely, if them soldiers catch me standin' here arguin' with the likes of a stubborn elf!" Bradwarden remarked, reminding Juraviel that they had all agreed that the elf should go out and scout for the approaching soldiers at daybreak.

"And so I go, good half a horse," Juraviel said, bowing and then skit-tering into the forest.

"Half a horse," Bradwarden grumbled, and he piled kindling near the cave entrance, "but if th' other part was elf, I'd have to be half a pony!"

Pony smiled widely, appreciating the good-natured game that Juraviel and Bradwarden always played.

The centaur moved a large rock aside, then jumped back as a crossbow bolt skipped through an opening deeper in the pile, narrowly missing a foreleg. "Can ye be takin' care o' that?" he asked.

Pony was already moving, graphite in hand. She loosed another streak of lightning into the opening. Cries and curses erupted within the cave, sounding more distant as Bradwarden stuffed the hole with wood. Then the centaur shifted to the side and removed some more rubble, building the cairn.

"Ye're sure ye can light the stuff?" he asked Pony for perhaps the tenth time.

Her look sent a shiver coursing through Bradwarden, and so he went back to his work.

"Nightbird approaches," came Juraviel's voice a few minutes later. "He has found two of the slain powries. The soldiers are behind him, but at a distance."

Bradwarden looked at Pony and nodded, and she came forward to the pile with serpentine and ruby in hand. She waved the centaur away, then fell into the power of the serpentine, erecting a blue-white, glowing pro-tective shield that completely engulfed her. A subtle command to the magic moved the ruby outside that shield, to sit atop the glow, atop her open palm. Now Pony linked her thoughts, her magical center, to the swirling powers of the ruby. She took her time, sent all her remaining en-ergy into that stone, letting the power mount until wisps of flame flickered about her.

Bradwarden and Juraviel wisely backed away even farther.

Pony looked around, chose the hollowed end of a log set low in the pile, then thrust her hand inside and loosed the magic. The sudden burst of flame engulfed her and the barricade, the concussive power shaking the stones, the fiery burst consuming every scrap of kindling Bradwarden had placed, shooting out in streaks from every crack in the pile.

Wet wood hissed in protest, but because of the intensity of the blast, most of it caught and burned. The rain joined in that hissing song, settling on the heated stones and vaporizing to rise into the heavy air.

Pony loosed another fireball, and when she stepped back, plumes of gray smoke billowed into the air. And into the cave, she knew. She dropped the serpentine shield and put the two gems away, taking out the graphite once more, for she expected that powries might be pounding at the barricade at any moment.

"The ranger approaches," Juraviel called down to them.

"I suppose that all the remaining powries are caught in that hole?" came his familiar voice from the tree line behind the friends.

"Ye think we'd sit all the night and wait for yerself and yer lazy soldier friends?" Bradwarden replied with a wink as the ranger came into view.

Nightbird looked at the smoking rubble pile, at the lightning-blasted stones, then turned to stare at Pony, who was soaking wet, her blond hair dripping. His first reaction was one of anger. How could his friends have come out here without telling him? How could Pony have put herself in danger without letting him know? But Elbryan forced himself to see this situation through Pony's eyes. She was full of rage, more so than he, and yet she could not vent that fury even in the few fights they had found over the last weeks. Since Elbryan and Pony were outlaws, she dared not use the gemstones openly in battle. Moreover, her proficiency with the healing stones, particularly hematite, demanded that she remain well away from the heart of any battle, ready to secretly heal those in need.

And when the ranger considered the situation from Bradwarden's view, he was no less sympathetic. The centaur had been treated brutally - imprisoned and tortured - since he was rescued from the bowels of destroyed Mount Aida by the Abellican monks. Yet he had been even less involved in the battles, for he was too easily identified, and Shamus Kil-ronney, though the man had become something of a friend, was a soldier of the King.

Elbryan focused again on Pony and recognized that, despite the drench-ing rain and the long, sleepless night she had obviously endured, she seemed more at peace than at any time since they had left St.-Mere- Abelle. Any anger Elbryan felt over this private war Pony and Bradwarden had waged could not measure up against that reality.

"Well, it seems that you have had all the fun," he said cheerily, "this time."

"Ah, yell get yer chance to stick a few afore the day's done, by me thinkin'," Bradwarden piped up. "And be sure that ye'll find more when we go to the northland."

"Soldiers approaching," Juraviel, now perched in a different nearby tree, warned. He motioned to Bradwarden, and as the centaur trotted beneath the tree, the elf dropped down atop his broad back.

"We found a bit o' the fun, though, didn't we?" Bradwarden said with a wink at Pony, and he moved off into the forest.

Pony mounted Greystone even as Elbryan slid off Symphony, the ranger drawing his elven bow, Hawkwing, and fitting an arrow as he moved to keep watch for any possible escapes through rock pile. The smoke was thicker now, billowing gray, and a fair amount of it was going into the cave.

"What got this one?" Colleen Kilronney asked incredulously as she examined the powrie lying at the base of the tree, a hole blasted right through its neck. Then she stood up to examine the hole in the tree, and shook her head in disbelief that anything could have been so deeply embedded in the hard wood of an old oak.

"A crossbow, I assume," one of her soldiers replied. "Powries oft carry them, and someone may have picked one from a body."

Colleen shrugged. Her fellow soldier had to be right, but she had never seen any crossbow that could hit this hard.

"Smoke in the forest," came the report of a scout, moving back to join the group.

Colleen was quick to her horse, kicking the mount to catch up to Shamus at the head of the column. They soon came into the clearing before the cave, and found Nightbird bending low to line up another shot through a smoking pile of wood and rock, Pony sitting calmly on her mount twenty feet to the side.

Colleen's gaze measured Pony. After Colleen had met Nightbird in her cousin's tent, she had learned that he was betrothed, or at least promised to, a woman called Pony. This had to be that woman, Colleen knew from the description the soldier had given her - a lengthy and detailed descrip-tion, for the man had rambled on and on about how helpful and wonderful Pony had been after their battles.

Looking at Pony now, Colleen was hardly surprised by that soldier's atti-tude. Pony was undeniably beautiful, with thick hair and huge sparkling eyes. And now she was just sitting to the side, watching, like some waiting plaything for the heroic ranger. "Ornament," the warrior whispered under her breath, and she gave a snort.

"How did you ever start a fire in this rain?" Shamus asked Nightbird. The captain dropped from his saddle and moved beside the ranger.

Nightbird grinned. "I did not," he explained. "A lucky lightning strike, it would seem, took down both rock and wood from above the cave entrance, trapping most of the powries within. God is with us this day, lending us his thundering sword."

"I've seen no recent lightning strikes," Colleen interrupted doubtfully. "And did yer God then pile the brush neatly in all the cracks? Or have ye been that busy in the ten minutes ye came in ahead of us? "

"No, and no," the ranger started to answer, but Pony cut him short.

"Trapper friends," she explained. "They saw the lightning - more than an hour ago, I guess - and took the opportunity to stack the brush and feed the flames."

"And killed the bloody-cap guards in the forest?" Colleen went on.

Pony gave a noncommittal shrug. "We found the trappers here and heard a quick tale. When we told them you were approaching, they bade us to keep the powries in the hole."

"Us?" Colleen asked doubtfully, looking at Nightbird, then back to the woman.

Pony let the insult pass. "Two score of the wretches, they said, though we know not how many still survive."

"And they'll not stay in the hole for long," Nightbird put in, "no matter the odds. Form your archers in a line before the rocks," he bade the cap-tain, "and we can pick them off as they exit."

Shamus Kilronney motioned his archers to take their positions. "This is all too easy," he remarked to the ranger.

"And is that not the preferred way?" Nightbird replied. Both he and Shamus glanced at Colleen as he said it, and neither was surprised to find the angry woman frowning.

And indeed, Colleen Kilronney was not pleased by this unexpected turn of events. When at last the leaders of Palmaris had decided to send someone north with news of the Baron's death, Colleen had volunteered, had insisted, on being a part of that team. She had come out for battle, eager to avenge Abbot Dobrinion, a personal friend whom she believed had been murdered by one of the bloody-cap dwarves. She jumped down from her horse and stormed past the two men, studying the rock pile. "Might be that they've another way out," she remarked - hopefully, it seemed. "Might already be gone, circled back and lookin' at us from behind, for all we're knowin'!"

"No other way out," Nightbird said firmly. "They are trapped within the cave, where the air grows fouler by the second."

"Unless the place's vented," Colleen said. She moved a step back, looking at the hill above the fallen stone.

"Easy enough to find and plug, if that were the case," Nightbird replied without missing a beat. "Though even if there were air holes, they would not clear enough of the heavy smoke in time. The dwarves are caught and choking. Some will try to come out and we will shoot them down. The others will die in the cave."

Colleen glared at Nightbird, not liking the blunt truth one bit.

"Perhaps not," Shamus said, wearing a thoughtful expression. "One telling feature of this war is the surprising lack of prisoners taken by either side."

"And who'd be wantin' a goblin prisoner?" Colleen asked incredulously. "Or a smelly bloody cap? Just stink up the place ye put 'em in."

"Powries have shown no mercy at all to humans," Nightbird added. As he spoke the words, he glanced at Colleen and found her looking back at him, both of them wearing the same blank expression, for both were sur-prised to find themselves on the same side of any debate.

"I speak not of mercy," Shamus was quick to add, "but of practicality. The powries in the cave are likely battered and hopeless. As reports from all corners of the kingdom have shown, they only want to get home now, and they might divulge important information concerning their former allies in exchange for passage."

"For passage that'd let 'em turn around and kill a few more folks for fun!" Colleen vehemently protested.

And again the ranger agreed. "Could we trust powries to stay away?" he asked. "Or even if they did not strike out in our lands again, wouldn't they prowl our coastal waters, preying on helpless ships? "

"But if these powries offered information that prevented even larger groups from wreaking suffering on the kingdom, then the risk would be worth the gain," Shamus replied.

Nightbird looked at Pony. The ranger's gaze drew others, Shamus and Colleen among them, and soon Pony found many pairs of eyes staring at her.

"I care nothing for the powries in the cave," Pony said quietly but firmly. "Kill them if you will, or take them prisoner if you will. They mean nothing to me."

"Suren there's a decisive answer," Colleen remarked sarcastically.

"I have seen too much fighting to be concerned with one small band of bloody-cap dwarves," Pony retorted.

Colleen Kilronney snorted derisively and turned away.

Pony looked at Elbryan and gave a weak but comforting smile, and he understood that she had sated her anger with this band already.

"Well, Nightbird," Captain Kilronney asked, "are we in agreement?"

"You agreed to help me rid the region of this band before you turned south," the ranger replied. "However you choose to do that is your own affair. This fight was over before you or I arrived here."

Shamus took that as the ranger's blessing. He moved to the rock pile, found what seemed to be the most open route to the darkness beyond, and called into the cave, offering to spare those dwarves that came out without a weapon.

For a while there came no answer, and Shamus set some of his men to the task of adding kindling to the smoky fire, while others stood be-hind the blaze, waving saddle blankets to fan the smoke more directly into the cave.

Suddenly the powries, screaming curses, charged the barricade, going at the stones furiously. Some opened passages too small for their stout bodies but perfectly suited to the archers' arrows. Others moved the wrong stone by mistake, only to start rockslides, while a couple did break clear. Arrow after arrow slammed into those freed powries, jolting them, slowing and then stopping their stubborn charge.

In a minute, the rock barricade was quiet again, save the continuing hiss and crackle of the fires, with several powries dead, and several others crawling wounded back into the cave, and with one unfortunate fellow stuck fast under some rocks, perilously close to a burning pile.

Captain Shamus Kilronney repeated his offer, identifying himself as an emissary of the King of Honce-the-Bear, with full power to bargain in the field.

This time, his offer was answered by a request for clarification, and then by a request for further assurances, before the remaining twenty- seven powries, faces blackened by smoke and many with wounds from stone and arrow and lightning bolts, crawled out of the cave, and were taken and securely bound.

Nightbird and Pony watched, the ranger leery, Pony ambivalent. Sit-ting not far from them astride her horse, Colleen Kilronney's feelings were more evident, her expression sour, low growls coming from her throat as each new bloody cap made its appearance at the narrow opening in the rock pile.

The group set off for Caer Tinella at once, the powries completely encir-cled by Kilronney's wary men. The captain rode at the head of the line, Nightbird beside him, while Pony followed behind, soon to be joined by Colleen Kilronney.

"Seems yer healin' arts won't be needed at all," the red-haired woman said to Pony, her tone condescending.

"I am always grateful when that is the case," Pony responded absently.

Colleen gave her horse a good kick and moved away.