The terrain became more difficult by noon on the day after the fight in the valley. Master Jojonah tried to keep the spirits of his com-rades high, reminding them of the good they had done, of the suf-fering they had prevented by intervening. But all of the monks were tired from their nighttime trials, particularly concerning the further use of magic, and, given the rough terrain, magic this day would have proven a great help.

One thing that neither Jojonah nor Brother Francis would com-promise on, though, was the use of the quartz gemstones for scouting. Exhausted as they were, the monks simply could not af-ford to let down their guard, not in this wild region. Master Jojonah did end the ride early, before the sun had set, and called for his brothers to sleep well and long, to gather their strength that they might attack the road more vigorously the next day.

"We would have had the strength to travel much later," Brother Francis pointedly told the master, as usual, planting himself by Jojonah's side as if keeping a wary eye on the older man, "had we not engaged in an affair that was not our own."

"It seems to me that you enjoyed the rout of the monstrous force as much as any, brother," the Master responded. "How can you doubt the wisdom of our actions?"

"I'll not deny the pleasure I garner in destroying enemies of my God," Brother Francis replied.

That high-browed proclamation raised Jojonah's eyebrows.

"Yet," Brother Francis went on before the portly monk could reply, "I know what Father Abbot Markwart dictated."

"And that is all that matters?"

"Yes."

Master Jojonah silently groaned over the brother's blind faith, a fault so prevalent in the Abellican Order these days, a fault that he, too, had been guilty of for so many years. Master Jojonah, like all the masters and immaculates of St.-Mere-Abelle, had known that the ship hired to carry the brothers to the isle of Pimaninicuit would never be allowed to leave the harbor at All Saints Bay, and that all aboard her would be killed. Like all the others - all except for Avelyn Desbris - Jojonah had accepted that grim outcome as the lesser of two evils, for the monks simply could not have allowed any with such knowledge as the location of Pimaninicuit to sail away. Similarly, Jojonah knew that Brother Pellimar had been al-lowed to die of an infection from a wound he had suffered on the voyage to that island - though hard work by the older monks with a soul stone certainly could have saved him - because the man could not keep his mouth shut concerning that all-important voyage. But again, at the time, Pellimar's demise had seemed to Jojonah the lesser of two evils.

In reflecting on his own decision, Master Jojonah could not fully blame the zealous Brother Francis now. "We saved many families last night," he reminded. "And for that, I cannot be sorry. Our mis-sion has not been compromised."

"Your pardon, Master Jojonah," came a call from the side of the wagon.

Both men turned to see a trio of younger monks, Brother Dellman among them, cautiously approaching.

"I have detected a presence in the area," Brother Dellman ex-plained. "Not a goblin, not a monster at all," the young monk quickly added, seeing the sudden and frantic reaction. "A man, shadowing our every move."

Master Jojonah sat back, not too concerned, and more interested at that moment in studying the young man who had delivered the news. Brother Dellman was going out of his way to make himself quite useful of late, was working harder than any other in the caravan. Jojonah liked the potential he saw there, in the young man's eyes, in the idealistic attitude.

"A man?" Brother Francis echoed, seeing that Master Jojonah was making no move to reply. "Of the Church? Of Palmaris? Of the village?" he snapped impatiently. Francis, too, had noticed Dellman's work of late, but he wasn't sure of the young monk's motives. "Who is it, and where has he come from?"

"Alpinadoran, obviously," Brother Dellman replied. "A huge man, with long flaxen hair."

"From the village, no doubt," Brother Francis said with a huff aimed directly at the master. "Perhaps you spoke too soon, Master Jojonah," he added curtly.

"He is a man," the older monk argued. "Just a man. Probably trying to find out who we are and why we saved his village. We will send him away and that will be the end of it."

"And is he a precursor?" Brother Francis said. "A spy sent to unveil our weaknesses? Never has Alpinador called itself an ally of the Abellican Church. Need I remind you of the tragedy at Fuldebarrow?"

"You need remind me of nothing," Master Jojonah replied sternly, but Brother Francis' point was well-taken. Fuldebarrow was an Alpinadoran town, larger than the one from the previous night, wherein the Church, the Abbey of St. Precious of Palmaris, had tried to establish a mission. All had gone well for nearly a year, but then, apparently, the Abellican missionaries had said or done something to offend the Alpinadoran barbarians, probably some insult to the god-figure of the northern people. None of the monks were ever found - physically at least. St. Precious had turned to St.-Mere-Abelle for help in the investigation, and using their magical talents, soul stones to locate the spirits of the dead, the masters of the larger abbey discovered that the missionaries had been brutally executed.

But that incident was nearly a hundred years old, and sending missionaries into any heathen territory was ever a dangerous course.

"Let us be rid of this spy efficiently," Brother Francis said, rising to his feet. "I will - "

"You will do nothing," Master Jojonah interrupted.

Brother Francis straightened as if slapped. "It is curious that I was not able to contact Father Abbot Markwart before the fight at the village," he remarked, the implications obvious, given his sly look Jojonah's way. "Distance is supposed to be irrelevant where hematite is concerned."

"Perhaps you are not as powerful with the stones as you be-lieve," Master Jojonah said dryly. Both men knew better, though. Both knew that Master Jojonah, who possessed a small but effec-tive sunstone, the stone of antimagic, had interfered with Brother Francis' attempt to enlist the Father Abbot against the notion that they would defend the Alpinadoran village from the monsters.

"What are we to do with this troublesome shadow, then?" Francis demanded.

"What indeed?" was all Master Jojonah could answer.

"He knows of us, and thus he looms as a threat," Brother Francis pressed. "If he is a spy, as I believe, then he will likely send a pow-erful force against us, and letting him live now will not seem so merciful in light of the dozens of men who will pay for our gener-osity with their lives." He paused, and it seemed to Jojonah that he was almost pleased by that prospect, as if he had just convinced himself that it would be better to let the man live.

It was a passing thought for Brother Francis, though. "Or even if he is not a spy," the fiery monk went on, "he remains a threat. Sup-pose he is captured by the powries. Do you doubt that he will di-vulge information about us to the monsters in the false hope of mercy?"

Master Jojonah looked to the three younger monks, all of them wearing startled expressions at the increasingly heated exchange. "Perhaps it would be better if you left us now," the master bade them. "And you, Brother Dellman, well done. Back to the gems with you, the soul stone this time, that you might watch our unin-vited guest more closely."

"Uninvited and unwanted," Brother Francis said under his breath as the three younger monks moved away, passing Braumin Herde, who was coming to join Francis and Jojonah.

"Do not underestimate this Alpinadoran," Brother Braumin re-marked as he neared. "Were it not for the soul stone, we would never have known he was shadowing our every move, though even as we speak he is less than fifty yards from our encampment."

"Spies are practiced at such tactics," Brother Francis remarked, drawing a sour expression from both Jojonah and Braumin.

"What do you believe?" Master Jojonah asked of Braumin.

"He is from the village, I would guess," the immaculate replied, "though I place less sinister value on that notion than does my brother."

"Our mission is too vital for us to let down our guard," Francis argued.

"Indeed it is," Master Jojonah agreed. He eyed Brother Braumin directly. "Possess the man," he instructed. "Convince him that he should be gone, or, if that should fail, use your power to walk his physical body far, far from here. Let him regain his physical con-sciousness back in the deep Timberlands, too exhausted to return anytime soon."

Brother Braumin bowed and started away, not thrilled by the prospect of possession, but relieved that Brother Francis did not get his way. He had not journeyed all these miles to play a role in the murder of a human.

Brother Braumin went to Dellman first, and bade the man to pass the word that all activity with quartz should cease, and that Dellman should forgo his searching with the soul stone -  possession was tricky enough without the prospect of another dis-embodied spirit floating about! Then Braumin went to his wagon and prepared himself.

Andacanavar crouched low in the brush, confident that he was too well concealed for any of the nearby monks to locate him. Visually, at least, for the ranger had no experience with magic, other than that of the Touel'alfar, and did not know the potential of the ring stones.

But Andacanavar was sensitive to his environment, extremely so, and he did indeed sense the presence about him, an intangible presence, the feeling that he was being watched.

How strong that sensation became when Brother Braumin's spirit moved right up to the ranger, when Brother Braumin's spirit tried to move right into the man!

Andacanavar looked all about, eyes darting to every shadow, to every conceivable hiding place. He knew he was not alone, and yet all of his physical senses showed him nothing.

Nothing.

The intrusion grew stronger; the ranger almost cried out, despite his better judgment. That near outburst surprised him, and led him to the horrifying and inescapable conclusion that some other will was forcing itself over him.

Andacanavar had participated in the communal gatherings of the Touel'alfar, the joining of the entire elven community into a single harmony. That had been a beautiful thing, a mental sharing, a most intimate experience. But this...

Again the ranger almost cried out; but he stopped himself, un-derstanding that the intruding will likely wanted him to yell out and surrender his position.

The ranger searched inside himself, tried to find something tan-gible, something identifiable. He recalled the communal elven song, a hundred voices joined as one, a hundred spirits blended in harmony. But this...

This was rape.

The ranger fell low to the ground, growling softly, fighting back in the only manner he understood. He put up a wall of sheer rage, a red barrier, denying all action. Andacanavar was completely in control of his will, on every level. He used the discipline ofbi'nelle dasada, the sword-dance, used in his years of training in Caer'alfar. And through that grim determination, that sheer strength of will, the ranger identified his spiritual enemy, located the intruding will. A picture formed in Andacanavar's mind, a map of his own thought process, and he mentally placed an enemy marker when-ever a trail on that map was accessed.

The enemy, the will of Brother Braumin, soon showed clear to the man, and then suddenly he and the monk were on equal footing, an open battle of wills, with the advantage of surprise no more. Brother Braumin, disciplined and trained in the stones, fought well, but the ranger was the stronger by far, and the monk was soon expelled, and soon in retreat.

Andacanavar was truly frightened by this strange experience, this unknown magic, but, with his typical courage, he would not let the opportunity pass. He felt a channel, a pathway left by the de-parting spirit, and he sent his thoughts along it, soaring free of his body.

Soon he was in the monk encampment, and then in one of the wagons. There sat the source of the intrusion, a man, a monk of about thirty winters, sitting cross-legged, deep in meditation.

Without hesitation, Andacanavar continued along the mental pathway, following the spirit right back into the monk's body, re-suming the battle. Now the battleground was more difficult, a ter-rain far more familiar to his enemy, but the ranger pressed on, focused his will. Only one thought slowed him, and that only tem-porarily: if he dominated this body, would it leave his own open to intrusion?

The ranger had no way of knowing, and the hesitation almost ended his fight.

But then, using the same determination that had sustained him through all these years and all these trials of the unforgiving land of Alpinador, Andacanavar pressed on tenfold, driving hard into the monk's mind, pushing the monk away wherever he found him, pushing, pushing, stealing every pathway, every corner, every hope and every fear.

*

*

*

It was not a good feeling, was too strange and too out of place, and, for the noble ranger, was simply wrong. Despite any rational-ization that he had been protecting his very soul, or any that re-minded him of his duty to his fellow Alpinadorans, Andacanavar could not rid himself completely of the guilt. Possessing another's body, whatever the reasons, assaulted the ranger's sense of right and wrong profoundly.

But he persevered, and took some comfort in the small and smooth gray stone he held in his unfamiliar hand. This stone was the conduit, Andacanavar recognized, the pathway between the spirits, and with it in his possession, both physical and spiritual, he felt confident that the portal to his own corporeal body was closed to any others. Acclimating himself to the new coil, he dragged him-self to the back of the wagon, peering out into the encampment, listening carefully to any passing conversations. He remained there for some time, was greeted by and returned the salutation of many other monks - and truly the ranger was glad that the elves had bothered to teach him the language of Honce-the-Bear! Then, gaining confidence, he dared to exit the wagon, walking openly in the midst of the foreigners.

He didn't have a difficult time in determining rank; in this group, it was apparently based on age, and Andacanavar had always been good at determining a man's years. Between these impressions and the respectful manner in which others greeted him, he confirmed his belief that he was in the body of one of high stature among the monks.

"Master Jojonah wishes to speak to you," one young man of-fered and another later confirmed, but of course Andacanavar had no way of knowing who this mysterious Master Jojonah might be. So he continued to wander about the encampment, gathering what information he could find. He soon realized that he was being followed - not by any corporeal being, but by the displaced spirit. Again and again the disembodied spirit tried to get back in, and though Andacanavar repelled the assaults, the ranger under-stood that he was growing weary and would not be able to hold out for long.

He spotted a much older man then, and guessed him to be the leader of the group, perhaps the one the others had spoken of. Beside the man, wearing an angry expression, was another monk of about the same age as the one he had possessed.

"Finished already?" Master Jojonah asked, coming over to him.

"Yes, Master Jojonah," Andacanavar answered respectfully, hoping that his tone, and his guess about the man's identity, were correct.

"And are we rid of the spy?" the other monk asked sharply.

Andacanavar resisted the urge to punch the surly man in the face. He stared at the monk long and hard, purposefully ignoring the question in the hope that the pair would further elaborate.

"Brother Braumin?" Master Jojonah prompted. "The Alpina-doran is gone?"

"What would you have me do?" Andacanavar asked sternly, pointing his ire at the younger of the two, for it seemed obvious to him that this man and the one he had possessed were not on good terms.

"What I would have you do is irrelevant," Brother Francis an-swered, casting a telltale sidelong glance at Master Jojonah.

"Since you have had no time to walk the Alpinadoran far away from here, I assume you imparted a convincing suggestion that he should depart," Master Jojonah said calmly.

"Perhaps we should have invited him in," Andacanavar dared to respond. "He knows the lay of the land, no doubt, and might have been able to better guide us." The ranger eyed Brother Francis as he spoke, and recognized a budding suspicion there, for the man wore an expression now of total surprise and even of horror.

"I considered that course," Master Jojonah admitted, defusing his hotheaded companion's mounting rage. "But we must adhere to the Father Abbot's decree."

Brother Francis snorted.

"If we brought him in, he would ask questions," Master Jojonah went on, ignoring Francis so completely that Andacanavar recog-nized that the older monk was quite used to this young monk's impertinence.

"Questions we cannot afford to answer," Jojonah continued. "We will pass through Alpinador quickly, and better not to involve any of the northmen in our quest. Better not to open any old wounds between our Church and the barbarians."

Andacanavar didn't press the issue, though he was indeed relieved to learn that this powerful contingent was not in the northland for any reasons hostile to Alpinador.

"Go back and look over our scouting friend," Master Jojonah in-structed, "and see that your suggestion is being followed."

"I will do it," Brother Francis interrupted.

The ranger wisely held back his initial reaction, for that reply would have been too sharp and insistent, even desperate. He had no desire to battle yet another spirit this day. "I am capable of finishing the task assigned to me, Master," he said to the man.

The other monk's expression showed the ranger his slip; that title was reserved, he realized now, for the older man alone. Brother Francis went from angry to suspicious to incredulous, staring hard through narrowed eyes at the ranger in the monk's body. Andacanavar tried to cover his miscue, turning quickly to the older man, the true master, but he found Jojonah wearing a similar doubting expression.

"Pray give me the stone, brother," Master Jojonah said.

Andacanavar hesitated, considering the implications. Could he get back to his own body without that stone? Would the master use it to discover the truth of the ruse?

As though it sensed the ranger's sudden hesitance, the disem-bodied spirit took that opportunity to attack once more.

The ranger knew it was time to leave.

Master Jojonah and Brother Francis leaped forward to grab the body of faltering Brother Braumin as his eyes flickered and his legs buckled. Brother Francis went right for the hematite, pulling it free of the man's hand.

But Andacanavar's spirit had no trouble locating the ranger's body, or in reentering. He was up and moving almost immedi-ately, though he wondered where he might hide from probing spiritual eyes.

Back in the camp, Brother Braumin steadied himself, then bent over, hands on knees, gasping for his breath.

"What happened?" Master Jojonah asked.

"How did you fail against one who is not even trained - " Brother Francis started to demand, but Jojonah cut him short with a glare.

"Strong," Brother Braumin remarked between gasps. "That one, that Alpinadoran, is strong of will and quick of thought."

"You would have to say that," Brother Francis said dryly.

"Go out yourself with the soul stone," Brother Braumin snapped at him. "It would do you well to find humility."

"Enough of this!" Master Jojonah demanded. He lowered his voice as he noticed that many others were gathering about. "What were you able to learn?" he asked Braumin.

The younger monk shrugged. "He learned from me, I fear, not the other way around."

"Wonderful," remarked a sarcastic Francis.

"What did he learn?" Master Jojonah demanded.

Again Brother Braumin could only shrug.

"Ready the teams," Master Jojonah instructed. "We must be far from this place."

"I will find the spy," Brother Francis offered.

"We will search for him together," Master Jojonah corrected. "If this man defeated Brother Braumin, hold no illusions that you are a match for him."

Brother Francis fumed, trying to find some retort. He turned away, as if to depart.

"Shall you join in the search?" Master Jojonah asked bluntly.

"I am seeing no need for that," came a resonating voice, and all the monks turned as one to see the giant Alpinadoran striding con-fidently into their camp, crossing through the ring of wagons without so much as a sidelong glance at those monks standing guard. "I am in no mood for any more of this spiritual dueling this day. Let us speak openly and plainly, as men."

Master Jojonah exchanged incredulous looks with Brother Francis, but when they turned to Brother Braumin, the only one who had made any true contact with the ranger, they found that he was not surprised. Nor did he look overly pleased.

"He is a man of honor," Master Jojonah said with some confi-dence. "Would you agree?"

Brother Braumin was too preoccupied to reply. He had locked stares with the Alpinadoran, the two sharing an almost primal ha-tred. They had battled intimately, seen each other's soul bared in hatred. For Andacanavar, this man had tried to violate him; for Brother Braumin, this man had proven himself the stronger in a way so personal that it brought him shame.

So they stood and stared at each other, and all the others around them, even Brother Francis, let the moment linger, recognizing the need for it.

Then Brother Braumin moved past his turmoil, reminding him-self that the man, after all, had only been defending himself. Gradually, the monk's visage softened and he gave a slight nod. "My attempt to convince you seemed the safer way," he apolo-gized. "For you most of all."

"I'd be finding a horde of giants less threatening than what you tried to do to me," Andacanavar replied, but he, too, gave a nod, a forgiving gesture, and turned his attention to Master Jojonah.

"My name is Andacanavar," he said. "And my land is beneath your boots. Many are my titles, but for your own purposes, you might be thinking of me as the protector of Alpinador."

"A haughty title," Brother Francis remarked.

The ranger let the comment pass. He found it curious that though the other young monk was the one who had tried to steal his body, he liked that man, and certainly respected him, more than this one. "I am no spy," he began, "for there is nothing sinister in my motives. I followed you from the valley for I have seen your strength and cannot be letting you walk the land free. Such power as you have shown could rain disaster on my people."

"We are not enemies of Alpinador," Master Jojonah replied.

"So I have learned," said Andacanavar. "And so I have come to you openly, walking into your camp as a friend, perhaps an ally, with my weapon on my back."

"We have asked for no help," Brother Francis remarked in a stern tone, drawing a glare from Master Jojonah.

"I am Master Jojonah," the older monk quickly interjected, wanting to shut up the troublesome Francis, "of St.-Mere-Abelle."

"Your home is known to me," the ranger said. "A great fortress, by all the tales."

"The tales do not lie," Brother Francis said grimly. "And each of us here is well-versed in the arts martial."

"As you say," the ranger conceded, again turning his focus to Master Jojonah, who seemed by far the more reasonable man. "You know I came among you, using his body," he explained. "And in so doing, I learned that you mean to pass right through my land. I might be helping you on that matter. None knows the way better than Andacanavar."

"Andacanavar the humble?" Brother Francis remarked. "Do you name that as one of your titles?"

"You know that you are offering insults a bit too freely," the ranger replied. "Perhaps you should be careful, else those lips get ripped off."

Too proud to stand for such a threat, Brother Francis steeled his gaze and took a bold stride forward.

The ranger exploded into motion, too quickly for any of the monks to even cry out. He pulled a small axe from his belt, then lurched to the side so he could throw it in an underhand motion.

The axe spun end over end, flying right between the legs of startled Brother Francis, then soared on, embedding itself deep into the sideboard of a wagon some twenty feet behind Francis.

The stunned monk, all the monks, turned about to regard the throw, then turned back to Andacanavar, every one of them wearing an expression of greater respect.

"I might have thrown it a bit higher," the ranger said with a wink. "And then your voice'd be sounding a bit higher."

Brother Francis did well to prevent himself from trembling, both from rage and fear. His face was white, though, revealing his true emotions.

"Move back, Brother Francis," Master Jojonah scolded in no uncertain terms.

Francis looked at the older man, matched Andacanavar's sly grin with an angry stare. Then he did move back in place, feigning a frustrated rage, though in truth - and everyone knew it - he was glad that Master Jojonah had intervened.

"You see, I have also had a bit of training in what you call the arts martial," the ranger explained. "But I am hoping to keep my skills for powries and giants and the like. Your Church and my people have not been friends - and I am seeing no reason to change that now - but if your enemies are the powries, then name Anda-canavar among your allies. If you want my help, then know I will get you through my land along the safest and swiftest path. If you do not want my help, then say it now and I leave you." He gave Brother Braumin a sly look, and chuckled as he finished, "And know that I can walk myself far, far away, and am in need of no help from the lot of you."

The young monk blushed deeply.

Master Jojonah looked to his two companions and, predictably, found two different silent messages coming back to him. He turned to the huge stranger, knowing that ultimately this was his own decision to make. "I am not at liberty to tell you our destina-tion," he explained.

"Who's asking?" replied a grinning Andacanavar. "You are going north and west, and intending to leave my land. If you're planning to hold that course, I can show you the swiftest and easi-est way."

"And if we do not mean to hold that course?" Brother Francis in-terjected. He glared at Master Jojonah as he spoke, making clear his position concerning the stranger.

"Oh, but you do," the ranger replied, holding firm his grin. "You are heading for the Barbacan, for Mount Aida, by my guess."

Supremely disciplined, none of the three monks standing before the ranger offered any hint concerning his blunt assumption, but the openmouthed expressions worn by many of the younger monks surely confirmed Andacanavar's suspicions.

"That is only your guess?" Master Jojonah asked calmly, fig-uring the man must have heard as much while in Brother Brau-min's body. Andacanavar had just become a more dangerous person, the old monk realized, and lamented, for he feared that he might have to let Brother Francis have his way and kill this noble man. "And just a guess?"

"My reasoning," Andacanavar clarified. "If you are meaning to strike at the backs of the monsters that are attacking your home-land, then you are too far to the north and east. You should have gone back to the west before you ever set foot in Alpinador. But you would not have made such a mistake, not with your magics as guide. And so you are heading for the Barbacan, it seems plain to me. You want to know about the explosion there, about the great cloud of gray smoke that covered the land for more than a week and even put some of its ash on my homeland."

Jojonah's fears fast shifted to curiosity. "Then there truly was an explosion?" he asked bluntly, despite his fears of giving away too much information.

Beside him, Brother Francis nearly choked.

"Oh, but the biggest explosion the world has known since I have been in it!" the ranger confirmed. "Shook the ground under my feet, though I was standing hundreds of miles away. And a moun-tain of clouds rolled up, debris from a whole mountain blown into the sky."

Master Jojonah digested the confirmation, then found himself in a truly terrible dilemma. Father Abbot Markwart's edicts on this matter were clear enough, but Jojonah knew in his heart that this man was no enemy, and might indeed prove to be of great assis-tance. The master looked around at his entire entourage - for all the monks were gathered about by that time - finally settling his gaze on Brother Francis, who, of course, would likely prove the most troublesome.

"I have seen into his heart," Brother Braumin put in after a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Too much so for my own liking," the ranger remarked dryly.

"And for my own," the monk replied, managing a weak smile. He turned back to Jojonah and, putting aside his inner turmoil with the man, a conflict he knew to be illogical, said, "Let him lead us through Alpinador."

"He knows too much!" Brother Francis argued.

"More than we know!" Brother Braumin shot back.

"The Father Abbot - " Brother Francis began in threatening tones.

"The Father Abbot could not have foreseen this," Brother Braumin was quick to interrupt. "A good man is Andacanavar, a powerful ally, and one who knows the way. A way we could easily lose in this jagged terrain," he added, speaking loudly so all could hear. "One errant turn in a mountain pass could defeat us, or cost us a week of backtracking."

Brother Francis started to respond, but Master Jojonah held up his hand, indicating he had heard enough. The monk, feeling very old indeed, rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at his two companions, then at the ranger. "Dine with us, Andacanavar of Alpinador," he bade the man. "I'll not confirm our destination, but will tell you that we must indeed be out of your land to the north and west, and as soon as is possible."

"A week of hard driving," the ranger said.

Master Jojonah nodded, though he knew that with their magic they could cut that time by more than half.

By noon of the next day, Master Jojonah no longer held any doubts about the wisdom of letting Andacanavar lead the caravan. The road remained rough, for western Alpinador was an unfor-giving place, a land of ice- broken stones and jagged mountains, but the ranger knew his way well, knew every trail and every obstacle. The monks, after their long rest, eased the trails with magic, light-ening wagons with levitational malachite, clearing debris from the road with strokes of lightning, and of course they continued to bring in the wild animals.

It took Andacanavar a while to catch on to this subtle trick. At first he wondered what trickery the monks were using to hunt the game, but when the caravan left a pair of deer behind them on the trail, both animals nearly dead from exhaustion, the ranger was truly perplexed - and far from happy. He went back to the deer and examined them.

"What do you call this?" he asked of Brother Braumin when the monk, on Jojonah's instructions, joined the curious ranger on the trail.

"We use the energy of the wild animals," the monk explained honestly. "Like food for our horses."

"And then you leave them to die?" the ranger asked.

Brother Braumin shrugged helplessly. "What are we to do?"

The ranger gave a great sigh, trying hard to sublimate his anger. He pulled a large and thick knife from a sheath on the back of his belt and methodically and efficiently killed both deer, then knelt in the dirt and offered a prayer for their spirits.

"Take that one," he instructed Brother Braumin, while he lifted the larger animal by the hooves and slung it over his shoulder.

The two caught up to the wagons soon after, Andacanavar drop-ping his carcass right in front of Jojonah's team. The master called for a halt and went out to the man.

"You take their life energy and leave them to die?" the ranger accused.

"An unpleasant necessity," Master Jojonah admitted.

"Not so necessary," the ranger came back. "If you have to kill them, then use them, all of them, else you are insulting the animal."

"We are hardly huntsmen," Master Jojonah replied. He gave a sidelong glance as Brother Francis moved up to join them.

"I will show you how to skin and dress them," Andacanavar offered.

"We have no time for that!" Brother Francis protested.

Master Jojonah bit his lip, not knowing how to proceed. He wanted to berate Francis - they could not afford to lose this very valuable guide - but feared that the damage was already done.

"Either you find the time to do it or you kill no more of my ani-mals," the ranger replied.

"These are your animals?" asked a doubtful Brother Francis.

"You are on my land, that much I told you," the ranger replied. "And so I am claiming guardianship on the animals." He turned to face Jojonah squarely. "Now, I'll not stop you from hunting; I have done as much myself. But if you are to take the animal, you cannot let it waste to death on the road. That's an insult, and cruel by any measure of decency."

"Lectured on cruelty by a barbarian," Brother Francis remarked with a snort.

"If you need the lesson, take it where you find it," Andacanavar replied without missing a beat.

"We need no food, or skins," Master Jojonah said calmly. "But the energy is vital to our team. If these horses cannot get us to our destination and back again, then we are stranded."

"And is it necessary for you to take so much from each animal that it hasn't enough left to live?" the ranger asked.

"How are we to know when to stop?"

"Suppose I can show your men that?"

Master Jojonah smiled widely. He had never liked this killing of innocent animals. "My friend, Andacanavar," he said, "if you could instruct us on how we might complete our most vital mission without leaving a single animal on the trail dead behind us, I would be forever grateful."

"So would more than a few deer," the ranger replied. "And as for these you have already killed, know that you will be eating well tonight, and you will find a use for the skins when you get more to the north, for even in high summer the night wind blows a bit chill up there."

Andacanavar then showed the monks how to skin and dress the deer carcasses. A short while later the caravan was on the move again, and several more deer were brought in. The ranger moni-tored each animal carefully as the monks transferred the energy, and as soon as he saw the creature going into distress, he called a halt to the process, and then the animal, weary but very much alive, was allowed to wander back into the forest.

Only Brother Francis showed any signs of dissent, and it seemed to Master Jojonah and Brother Braumin that even pouting Francis was a bit relieved to be rid of the unpleasant practice.

"A fine trick if you do it right," Andacanavar said to Master Jojonah as they rode along. "But finer it would be if you brought in a moose or two. That would get your horses running!"

"A moose?"

"Big deer," the ranger explained with a wry smile.

"We have brought in some big - " Master Jojonah stared to say, but Andacanavar cut him short.

"Bigger," he said, and hopped down from the wagon and ran off into the brush.

"He is an active old man," Brother Braumin remarked.

The ranger returned to the wagons nearly an hour later. "You tell your spirit-walking friends to go and look down that way," he said, indicating a shallow dell west of the trail. "Tell them to look for something big and dark, with a rack of antlers twice as wide as a man is tall."

Both Jojonah and Braumin gave doubtful looks.

"Just you tell them," Andacanavar insisted. "Then you will see if I am lying."

A short while later, when a huge bull moose wandered onto the trail under the control of the soul stones, both monks offered silent apologies for their doubts.

And how the horses ran when they left the tired moose by the side of the road!

By day they rode, long and hard, and by night all of the monks gathered about their fires, listening to the ranger's tales of the north. Andacanavar's jovial manner and spirited stories won them all over, even Brother Francis, who did not even bother to carry through with his threat to contact the Father Abbot to lodge a complaint.

And so it was on the fourth day of their travels together, when the ranger announced that he would leave as they set their camp, that a pall came over the caravan.

"Bah, you should not be so despairing," Andacanavar told them. "I will show you a road to the Barba - " He stopped and caught himself, giving a wry grin. "If that is where you are going, I mean," he added slyly.

"I cannot confirm," Master Jojonah put in, and he, too, was grin-ning. He had full confidence in Andacanavar now, had seen the man's heart and knew it to be akin to his beliefs. Of course the man knew where the monks were heading - where else would someone go this far into the Wilderlands?

"A road straight and sure," the ranger went on, "and, if you are not finding any powries or giants blocking the way, you will get there, and soon enough."

"By my maps, our destination is many, many miles from Alpina-dor's western border," Brother Francis remarked, his tone toward the ranger more respectful now. "We have a long road ahead of us, I fear."

Andacanavar held out his hand, and Brother Francis turned over the parchment, a map of the immediate region. The ranger lifted an eyebrow as he considered it, for it was quite detailed and fairly accurate.

"Your maps are telling you true," Andacanavar agreed. "But we put Alpinador's western border behind us before we set camp the night before the last. So take heart, my friends, for you are almost there - not that I would be taking heart if I was heading into the place where the demon is said to roost!" He bit the tip of one finger then, and with his blood drew another line on the map, the road to the Barbacan, ending it with an X to mark their present location.

He handed the map back to Francis, and with that, and a final bow, Andacanavar left them, running into the underbrush, laugh-ing all the while.

"Were it not for his stature, I'd think him an elf," Brother Braumin remarked. "If there were such a creature as an elf."

Andacanavar's last words concerning their present position came as a relief to offset the monks' sadness at losing their most ex-cellent guide. They ate their evening meal - wonderful venison again - said evening prayers and slept well, then were on the road again, anxiously, before the next dawn.

The land remained rugged - less mountainous, but more heavily forested. Still, using the blood line on the map as a guide, the monks soon came upon a wide and clear road, not just a narrow trail. All wagons stopped there, with the caravan's leaders going out to investigate.

"This swath was cut by the monstrous army on their march to the south," Master Jojonah reasoned.

"Then backtracking it should get us right to the source of the monstrous army," said Brother Braumin.

"A dangerous course," remarked Brother Francis, looking all about. "We are in the open."

"But a swift course, no doubt," Brother Braumin replied.

Master Jojonah thought about it for only a short while, consid-ering most of all that Andacanavar had put them on this trail. "Have the spirit scouts out far and wide," he instructed. "Both our wagons and our horses could use the reprieve of a smooth road."

Brother Francis put every quartz and hematite to use, sending monks out far and wide for fear that they were riding right into an enemy encampment.

Two days later they had still not encountered a single monster, though they had put a hundred miles and more behind them. Now before them they saw the towering mountains that ringed the Bar-bacan, and all the monks feared they would have a terrible time in-deed in getting the wagons through those barriers.

But the road continued on, to the base of the mountains, and right up into the mountains, climbing through a wide pass. Setting a camp in that place was more than a bit disturbing, but again no monsters came forward to challenge them, and those monks with the quartz stones discovered that there weren't many wild crea-tures about, either. The land seemed strangely dead, and eerily silent. By mid-morning of the next day the end of the mountains was in sight, with only a single ridge blocking their view beyond. Master Jojonah called for a halt, then motioned for Brothers Braumin and Francis to accompany him.

"We should go in spiritually," Brother Francis noted.

It was a good suggestion, a prudent suggestion, but Master Jo-jonah shook his head anyway. He had a feeling that what lay ahead was incredibly important, and he felt that it should be viewed physically, both body and soul. He motioned the pair to his side, asked the other immaculates to join them, and started the climb.

The younger monks followed the group, not so far behind.

When Master Jojonah crossed the last barrier, coming to a point where he could view the wide valley that was the heart of the Bar-bacan, his spirits both sagged and soared. The monks filtered away from each other, hardly noticing each other's movements, stunned by the scene, for the devastation looming before them was total. Where once had stood a forest, there was now a field of gray ash lit-tered with charred logs. All the valley was gray and barren, and the air hung thick with the reek of sulfur. It seemed to them all a pre-view of the end of the world, or a premature glimpse of the place their Church defined as hell. Most shaken of all were the younger monks as they, too, came over the ridge, several crying out in despair.

But when that initial despair passed into a grim acceptance, other, more positive, thoughts found their way into every mind. Could anything have survived this blast? Perhaps their suspi-cions, their hopes, of a "beheaded" monstrous army were true, for if, as believed, the demon dactyl had called the Barbacan its home, if the demon dactyl had been here at the time of the explosion, then the demon dactyl was surely gone.

Even Brother Francis was too stunned to speak for a long, long time. Gradually he made his way back to Master Jojonah's side.

"Can we take this scene of devastation as proof enough that the demon dactyl is destroyed?" the master asked.

Francis looked down into the ash-filled bowl. It wasn't hard to discern the source of the explosion: a flat-topped mountain standing alone in the middle of the ash field, a thin line of smoke still wisping from its top. "I do not believe this to be a natural oc-currence," Francis said.

"There have been volcanoes before," Master Jojonah countered.

"But at this critical time?" Brother Francis asked doubtfully. "Dare we hope that a volcano erupted at the precise moment we most needed its help, and at the precise location of the enemy leader?"

"You doubt divine intervention?" Master Jojonah asked. He sounded serious, though he, too, held great doubts. There were fa-natics in the Order who seemed to expect God's thumb to slip down from the heavens and squash the opponents of the Church at every turn; Jojonah had heard one young monk standing at the sea-wall of St.-Mere-Abelle during the powrie invasion invoking God repeatedly, literally calling out for that punishing thumb. Master Jojonah also believed in the power of God, but he thought of it as an analogy for the power of good. He believed that good would win out in the end of every great struggle, because, by its very na-ture, good was a stronger force than evil. He suspected that Francis held similar feelings on the subject, for, despite his other short-comings, the man was a thinker, a bit of an intellectual, who always edged his faith with logic.

Francis eyed him slyly now. "God was on our side," he said. "In our hearts and in the strength that guided our weapons, and surely in the magic that crushed our enemies. But this ..." he said, opening his arms dramatically as he scanned the devastated valley. "This may have been the work of God, but it was precipitated by the hand of a godly man, or was the result of the demon dactyl's overextending its call to the earth magic."

"Likely the latter," Master Jojonah replied, though he hoped dif-ferently, hoped that Brother Avelyn had played a part in this.

Brother Braumin, coming to join the pair, heard the last few comments and now stared long and hard at Brother Francis, sur-prised by the man's reaction. He turned his perplexed expression to Master Jojonah, and his superior only smiled and nodded, for he was not quite as surprised. At that moment Master Jojonah discov-ered Brother Francis' redeeming qualities and found that there might indeed be something about the man that he liked. He paused for a bit to silently wonder if Brother Francis might be steered in a new direction.

"Whatever happened here came from that mountain," Brother Francis reasoned. "Mount Aida, by name."

The other two looked at him curiously.

"That is what the Alpinadoran named it," Brother Francis ex-plained. "And indeed, that name corresponds to many old maps that I studied. Aida, the lone mountain within the ring, the lair of the demon."

"It will not be easy to get to it," Brother Braumin remarked.

"Could we have expected differently?" Brother Francis asked with a laugh.

Again the two others only looked to each other and shrugged. It seemed to them as if this explosion might have rid the world of the dactyl demon, and might have rid Brother Francis of a few internal demons, as well.

They let it go at that, though, taking Francis' good mood as a blessing. They could only hope it would endure.

The journey across the ash field was not as difficult as they had feared, for though the gray stuff had settled thick in many places, it had been blown clear in many others. As they neared the mountain, the lead driver made a horrible discovery.

His cry brought the monks running, to find several bodies en-cased in ash, lying along the side of the twisting trail.

"Powries," Brother Braumin explained, going over to examine them. "And a goblin."

"And that one is ... was, a giant," said another monk, pointing ahead on the trail to a huge leg protruding from a berm of ash.

"So our enemies were here," Master Jojonah noted.

"Were," Brother Francis emphasized.

They went on to the very base of the mountain and ringed the wagons there. Master Jojonah instructed half of them to set the camp, the other half to begin a thorough search of the area, looking particularly for any way in, or up, the mountain. With torches and a single diamond in hand, a group of monks entered one winding cave that very night, snaking their way into Aida. They returned in less than an hour with news that the tunnel led to a dead end, the way blocked by a solid wall of stone.

"No doubt it traveled farther before the explosion," Brother Dellman told Master Jojonah.

"Let us hope that not all of the tunnels have so collapsed," Jojonah replied, trying to sound hopeful. In looking at blasted Aida, though, the monk had to temper his optimism.

Brother Dellman led his troupe into a second tunnel, and when that one again abruptly ended, the young monk, undaunted, headed into a third.

"He has promise," Brother Braumin remarked to Jojonah as Dellman started off that third time.

"He has heart," Master Jojonah agreed.

"And faith," said the other. "Great faith, else he would not attack his tasks with such determination."

"Is there any more determined than Brother Francis?" Master Jojonah reminded.

Both men looked over to Francis, who was busy marking some parchments, detailing the nuances of the Barbacan.

"Brother Francis, too, has faith," Brother Braumin decided. "He just follows it down errant paths. But perhaps he will find a truer way; it seems as though his time with the honorable Alpinadoran did him well."

Master Jojonah offered no reply, just sat staring at Francis. It did indeed seem as if some of Andacanavar's jovial spirit had rubbed off on the man, but Jojonah wasn't counting Francis as a convert just yet.

"Where do we search next if we find no tunnels open into the mountain's heart?" Brother Braumin asked. "And if the flat top yields no valuable information?"

"Then we search with the hematite," the master replied.

"I had thought we would do that first."

Master Jojonah nodded, expecting as much, for he, too, had thought that the initial search of Aida would be more easily accom-plished if the monks used the soul stones. He had changed his mind and their course, considering Brother Braumin's experience with Andacanavar. Jojonah couldn't be certain that the demon dactyl's spirit wasn't lingering about this place, and if the unmagical Alpinadoran could use such a spiritual connection to find his way into their midst, what might the demon dactyl do?

"Let us use our wits and our bodies," the old monk replied to Braumin. "If they do not suffice, then we will utilize the soul stones."

The younger man, trusting fully in Master Jojonah, was satisfied with that. "When will Brother Francis make contact with Father Abbot?" he asked.

"I bade him to wait until the morning," Master Jojonah ex-plained. "I do not think it prudent to open channels to one's spirit in this forsaken place."

That explained much to Brother Braumin, particularly con-cerning Francis' fine mood, and he let the matter drop. He put a hand on Jojonah's large shoulder, then walked off, for there was much work to be done.

After three hours the monks at camp began to grow nervous about Brother Dellman and the missing party. After four, Master Jojonah considered it might be time to put the hematites to use. He was about to give in and do just that when the monks scouting just west of the camp shouted that they saw torchlight.

Master Jojonah saw it soon after, a single monk exiting the tunnel in the foothills of Aida, moving with all speed back to the camp.

"Brother Dellman," Braumin explained to Jojonah as the man came closer, running full speed down the slope, nearly losing his balance and pitching headlong more than once.

"Gather together, and ready for enemies!" Master Jojonah called.

The monks went into a practiced drill, handing off the appro-priate stones to the appropriate wielders. Others strapped on weap-ons, or went to secure the horses.

Brother Dellman stumbled into camp, gasping, trying to catch his breath.

"Where are the others?" Master Jojonah asked him immediately.

"Still... inside," Dellman replied.

"Alive?"

The young monk straightened and tilted his head back, gulping air, calming himself. When he looked back at Jojonah, the master's fears lessened considerably. "Alive, yes," he said calmly. "No danger in there, unless the rubble shifts again."

"Then why are you out here?" Jojonah asked. "And why are you so agitated?"

"We found something ... someone," Brother Dellman replied. "A man, or half a man, and half horse."

"A centaur?" asked Brother Braumin.

Brother Dellman shrugged, never having heard the term before.

"A centaur wears the body of a man, torso, shoulders, arms and head," Brother Francis explained. "But from the waist down it wears the coil of a horse, four legs and all."

"A centaur," Brother Dellman agreed. "He was in the cave when the mountain fell in on him. Tons and tons of stone."

"You dug him out?" asked Master Jojonah.

"We know not where to begin," Brother Dellman replied.

"Poor creature," Brother Braumin remarked.

"Then leave him to his grave," Brother Francis said callously, seeming quite like the old Francis again. Neither Braumin nor Jojonah missed that fact, and they offered each other a resigned shrug.

"But Brother Francis," Brother Dellman protested, "he is not dead!"

"But you said - " Master Jojonah started to reason.

"Tons," Brother Dellman finished for him. "Oh, he should be dead. He should! Nothing could have survived that crush. And surely, he looks as if he should be dead, all withered and broken. Yet the creature lives. He opened his eyes and begged me to kill him!"

The three older monks stood openmouthed, while the younger men about them whispered excitedly.

"And did you?" Master Jojonah asked at length.

"I could not," Brother Dellman replied, seeming horrified at the very thought. "His pain must be great, I do not doubt, but I could not end his life."

"God does not give us more than we can bear," Brother Francis recited.

Master Jojonah gave him a sour, sidelong glance. At times that old line sounded like nothing more than an excuse Church leaders used on common folk, the peasants wallowing in poverty while those same leaders lived in luxury.

But that was an argument for another day, Jojonah realized, and so he made no comment on it. "You did well, and right," he said to Dellman. "The others remained with this centaur?"

"Bradwarden," Brother Dellman replied.

"What?"

"Bradwarden," the monk repeated. "That is his - the centaur's -  name. I left the others with him, offering what meager comfort they might."

"Let us go and see what we might do," Master Jojonah said. To Brother Braumin, he instructed, "Gather all stones, except dupli-cates, and take them with us. Brother Francis," he called loudly, so that all about heard clearly, "you will hold the defense of the wagons."

Now it was Francis' turn to wear the sour look, but Master Jojonah wasn't paying him any heed, the old monk already motioning Brother Dellman back the way he had come, back to see this Bradwarden creature, this somehow immortal being.

The path was not long, and Dellman set a swift pace, so that Jojonah was huffing and puffing by the time they came in sight of the other torches. Jojonah walked by the younger monks rever-ently, to kneel before the twisted, emaciated body.

"You should be dead," Master Jojonah said matter-of-factly, doing well to hide his horror and his revulsion. Only the creature's human torso and the front half of its equine part was exposed, with the rest of it buried, squashed, under a huge slab of rock that climbed right up out of the low corridor and into the collapsed mountain. The creature was bent weirdly, back in on itself, with its eyes facing the very stone that had crushed its lower half. Where once Bradwarden's arms had bulged with strong muscles, they were slack now, withered, as though the centaur's body Was con-suming itself for lack of food. Master Jojonah moved very close and crouched as low as his portly form would allow, studying and sympathizing.

"Oh, but be sure that I'm feeling like I am dead," Bradwarden replied, his agony reflected clearly in his normally resonant but now shaky voice. "Or at least, heading that way. Ye canno' know me pain." He managed to turn his head about then, to glance upon the newcomer, and he tilted his head curiously at the sight, eyeing Jojonah closely, then gave a pained chuckle.

"What do you see?" the master asked him.

"Do ye have a son, then?" Bradwarden asked.

Master Jojonah looked back over his shoulder to Brother Braumin, who held his hands out helplessly. Why this creature, at this time and in this predicament, would ever ask such a question was beyond his understanding.

"No," Master Jojonah answered simply. "Nor a daughter. My heart was given to God, and to no woman."

The centaur gave a chuckle. "Ah, but what ye've missed," Bradwarden said with a sly wink.

"Why should you ask that?" Master Jojonah inquired, for he wondered suddenly if it might be more than coincidence.

"Ye remind me o' one I knew," Bradwarden replied, his tone re-vealing fond memories for the old friend.

"A monk?" Jojonah pressed, more urgently now.

"A mad friar, by his own admission," the centaur replied. "A bit too friendly with the drink, but a good man he was - or is, if he found a way out of this cursed place."

"And did you know his name?" asked Master Jojonah.

"Me own brother, he was," the centaur went on, talking more to himself than to the others, and seeming as if he were in some dis-tant place, delirious, perhaps. "By deed, if not by blood."

"His name?" Brother Braumin prompted loudly, moving close and bending near Bradwarden's face.

"Avelyn," the centaur calmly replied. "Avelyn Desbris. A most excellent human."

"He must be saved at all cost," came a voice behind them. All the monks turned about to see Brother Francis, a diamond glowing brightly in his palm, standing at the back of their line.

"You were instructed to command the defense of the encamp-ment," Master Jojonah said to the man.

"I take no orders from Master Jojonah," came the reply, and Jojonah realized then that Father Abbot Markwart had taken Francis' body and come among them. "We must extricate him from this place," he continued, looking to the huge slab.

"Ye're not big enough to lift a mountain," Bradwarden said dryly. "As I wasn't big enough to hold it up while me friends ran off."

"Your friend Avelyn?" Markwart asked impatiently.

"Me other friends," the centaur replied. "I'm not for knowing - " He stopped and grimaced, for his movement in turning about to face the men had caused the rock to shift slightly. "No, ye're not for lifting this," he groaned.

"We shall see," said the Father Abbot. "Why are you still alive?"

"Not for knowing."

"Unless you are no mortal creature," Markwart went on, his tone sly and accusing. He moved past the others to crouch beside Master Jojonah.

"An interesting thought," Bradwarden replied. "Always was told I was a bit headstrong. Might be that I just refused to die."

Markwart was not amused.

"Now me daddy, he died," the centaur recounted. "And me mum, as well, a score and more years ago. She took a hit o' the lightning - now that's an odd way to die! So, no, I'd be guessing that I'm not immortal."

"Unless an immortal spirit has found its way into your body," Markwart pressed,

"Are not all spirits immortal?" Master Jojonah dared to interrupt.

Markwart's glare ended that discussion before it could begin. "Some spirits," he said evenly, looking at Bradwarden, but offering the words as much to Jojonah, "can transcend physicality, can keep a body animated, though it should be dead and still."

"Only spirit in me is me own, and a bit o' the boggle," the cen-taur assured him with a strained smile and a wink. "And a bit more o' the boggle might be easing me pain, if ye got any."

Markwart's expression didn't change in the least.

"I'm not for knowing why I'm not dead," Bradwarden ex-plained seriously. "Thought I was, when the rock bent me legs and slid down. And suren that me groaning stomach spent a week and more o' tellin' me to die."

Father Abbot Markwart was hardly listening then. He had slipped another stone into his hand, a small but effective garnet, a stone used to detect the subtle emanations of magic, and he was using it now to survey the trapped creature. He found his answer al-most immediately.

"You have magic about you," he announced to Bradwarden.

"That, or luck," said Master Jojonah.

"Bad luck," the centaur remarked.

"Magic," the Father Abbot said again, forcefully. "About your right arm."

It took quite an effort for Bradwarden to turn his head enough so he could view his upper right arm. "Oh, by the damned dactyl and all its sisters," he grumbled when he saw the red armband, the piece of cloth that Elbryan had tied about him. "And the ranger thought to be doing me a favor. Two months o' suffering, two months o' hunger, and the damned thing won't let me die!"

"What is it?" Master Jojonah asked.

"Elven healing cloth," Bradwarden replied. "Seems the damned thing is fixing me wounds as fast as the damned mountain's giving them to me! And even the lack o' food and drink won't take me!"

"Elven?" Brother Braumin gasped, reflecting the feelings of all in attendance. Bradwarden deciphered their expressions and was surprised to find that they were surprised.

"Don't ye be telling me that ye're not for believing in elves?" he said. "Nor centaurs, I'm guessing? And how about powries, or maybe a giant or two?"

"Enough," Father Abbot Markwart bade him. "Your point is well-taken. But we have never encountered an elf, nor a centaur, until this time."

"Then yer world's become a better place," Bradwarden said, of-fering another wink, though it ended in a pained grimace.

Markwart rose then and motioned for the others to follow him away from the centaur. "It will be no easy task in getting him out of there," he said once they were out of the range of Bradwarden's hearing.

"Impossible, I'd say," remarked Brother Braumin.

"We can levitate the stone using malachite," Master Jojonah reasoned. "Though I fear that all of our strength combined may not be enough to budge such an obstacle."

"I fear more that when we do lift the stone, the pressure will be relieved so that the centaur's lifeblood will pour from him too fast for his elven armband, and our efforts, to compensate," the Father Abbot pointed out.

"But still, we must try," said Brother Braumin.

"Of course," Markwart agreed. "He is too valuable a prisoner, too great a source of information - not only for what happened here, but for the fate of Brother Avelyn - for us to let him die."

"I was thinking more of compassion for his predicament," Braumin dared to add.

"I know you were," Markwart replied without hesitation. "You will learn better."

The Father Abbot stormed away then, motioning for the others to follow. Brother Braumin and Master Jojonah exchanged sour looks, but had little choice in the matter.

On orders from Markwart, who was tiring from the possession and needed a reprieve, they did not make the attempt until late the next day, when they were all rested and mentally prepared. Mark-wart came back into the body of Brother Francis then, and led the procession, clutching a malachite and a hematite.

In position, all the monks of the caravan, except for Master Jojonah, who also held a hematite, joined in communion within the depths of the soul stone, then channeled their combined energy into the malachite, and when that energy had reached its apex, Father Abbot Markwart released it, aiming it at the slab over Bradwarden.

Master Jojonah only then realized the great risk that Markwart had taken - for the monks of the caravan and not for his own body, which was safely back at St.-Mere-Abelle. As the stone slab groaned under the sudden release of pressure, many smaller stonesand clouds of dust fell down into the corridor, and Jojonah feared that all the tunnel might collapse. They should have taken a few days to shore it up, he realized, but that lack of preparedness only emphasized for him the sheer desperation of the Father Abbot to find Avelyn Desbris.

The monks pressed on and the slab shifted again. Bradwarden cried out and went into convulsions, and Jojonah was fast to him, hooking his arms under the broad shoulders of the centaur and pulling with all his might.

He found, to his horror, that he couldn't budge the huge centaur. Even in his emaciated state, Bradwarden weighed well over four hundred pounds. Into the hematite went Jojonah, not to attack the centaur's wounds, as they had planned, but to intercept the thoughts of the other monks, pleading with them to lend some of their en-ergy to the centaur's form that he might drag the huge creature free.

It got tricky then, and Jojonah feared that the slab would tumble back down, but Markwart, so incredibly powerful with the stones now, led the monks in the effort, shifting some of the levitational forces onto the centaur.

Jojonah pulled him free, then fell back into the hematite, going at the centaur's wounds with fervor. He was hardly conscious of the movement as Markwart and the others grabbed both him and Bradwarden and dragged them on their way, rushing out of the un-stable tunnel.

And then Master Jojonah was no longer alone in his efforts to save the creature, as Markwart's spirit, and Brother Braumin's and several others, joined him, attacking Bradwarden's every wound.

More than five hours later Master Jojonah lay on the ground just outside Aida, thoroughly exhausted, with Brother Braumin beside him. There they slept, and only woke up late the next morning, to find Brother Francis -  and it was indeed Francis -  standing over them.

"Where is the centaur?" Master Jojonah asked.

"Resting, and more comfortable than we might have hoped," Brother Francis replied. "We fed him - tentatively at first, but then he ate pounds of meat, half our store of venison, and drank gallons of water. Strong indeed must be the magic of that armband, for al-ready he seems more solid."

Master Jojonah nodded, sincerely relieved.

"And we have found a way up the mountain," Brother Francis added.

"Is there still a need?"

"You will be interested in what we have there discovered among the ashes," Brother Francis said sternly.

Master Jojonah held his next question, instead pausing to take a measure of the man. Whatever progress Francis might have made seemed to have been erased now - probably by the visit of Father Abbot Markwart. The man's expression was cold again; the laugh-ter in his eyes was no more. All business.

"I need to rest, I fear," Master Jojonah said at length. "I will talk to Bradwarden this day; we can climb Aida tomorrow."

"No time," Brother Francis replied. "And none are to speak to the centaur until we return to St.-Mere-Abelle."

Master Jojonah didn't even need to ask where that order had come from. And he came to understand more clearly Brother Francis' shift of mood. When they had first viewed the blasted Bar-bacan, Francis had proclaimed that the devastation was either the work of a godly man or an overextension of the demon dactyl's magic. Now it seemed clear that Brother Avelyn had indeed been involved, and Master Jojonah did not doubt for a second that the Father Abbot had made it clear to Francis that Brother Avelyn was no godly man.

"We go up the mountain this day," Brother Francis went on. "If you cannot make it, then Brother Braumin will go in your stead. When that duty is finished, we are back on the road."

"It will be dark before you get back down," Brother Brau-min said.

"We will ride day and night until we are returned to St.-Mere-Abelle," Brother Francis answered.

The course seemed quite silly to Master Jojonah. The answers were here, of course, or perhaps nearby. To go all the way back to St.-Mere-Abelle made no sense - unless he factored in Father Abbot Markwart's profound distrust of him. The discovery of an eyewitness had changed everything, and Markwart wasn't about to let him take control of this very delicate situation. Jojonah looked to Braumin then, both men wondering if the time had come to make a stand against the Father Abbot, against the Church itself.

Master Jojonah shook his head slightly. They could not win.

He was not surprised, but was surely pained, when he returned to the wagons to find Bradwarden in chains. Still, the centaur's re-newed vigor surprised him and gave him hope.

"Ye might at least let them give me me pipes," the centaur begged.

Master Jojonah followed Bradwarden's longing gaze to a set of dusty bagpipes lying on the seat of a nearby wagon. He started to say something, but Brother Francis cut him short.

"He will have food, and he will have healing, and nothing more," the monk explained. "And as soon as he seems fully recov-ered, the armband will be taken."

"Ah, but Avelyn was a far better man than the lot o' ye put to-gether," Bradwarden remarked, and he closed his eyes and began humming a quiet tune, pausing once to offer a sly look and mutter, "Thieves."

Master Jojonah, eyeing Brother Francis all the while, walked over and took up the bagpipes, then handed them to the centaur.

Bradwarden returned a respectful look and a nod, then took to playing, hauntingly beautiful music that had all the monks, except stubborn Francis, listening intently.

Master Jojonah somehow found the strength to accompany Fran-cis and six others up Aida that afternoon. The top of the mountain was now a wide black bowl, but the ash and molten stone had hard-ened enough for the monks to walk across it without much difficulty.

Brother Francis led them directly to the spot: a petrified arm sticking from the black ground, fingers clutched as though they had held something.

Master Jojonah bent low and examined the arm and hand. He knew them! Somehow, he knew who this was, somehow he felt the goodness of this place, an aura of peace and godly strength.

"Brother Avelyn," he gasped.

Behind him the others, except for Francis, nearly fell over.

"That is our guess," Brother Francis replied. "It would seem that Avelyn was in league with the dactyl, and was destroyed when the demon was destroyed."

The obvious falsehood overwhelmed Master Jojonah. He rose and spun on Brother Francis powerfully, and nearly struck the man.

But Jojonah held his blow. Father Abbot Markwart would per-sist with a campaign of lies against Avelyn, he realized, for if it was discovered that Avelyn had given his life in destroying the dactyl, as Jojonah knew to be true, then Markwart's many claims and posi-tion in the Church might be in jeopardy. That was why, Jojonah realized, conversations with the centaur were to be limited until the creature was safely back at St.- Mere-Abelle, under Markwart's control.

Master Jojonah forced himself to calm down. This fight was only beginning; now was not the time to wage the battle openly.

"What do you think he was holding?" Brother Francis asked.

Jojonah looked back to the arm and shrugged.

"There is little magic about this man," Brother Francis ex-plained. "A couple of stones, perhaps - we will know that when we exhume the body - but not enough strength to account for the hoard that Avelyn stole."

Exhume the body.The notion screamed out at Jojonah as simply wrong. This place should be marked as a holy shrine, a place of re-newing faith and finding character. He wanted to scream out at Francis, to punch the man in the mouth for even uttering such a blasphemous thought. But again he reminded himself that this was not the time to wage the battle, not that way.

"The stone about the arm is solid," he reasoned. "Blasting it will prove no easy task."

"We have graphite," Brother Francis reminded him.

"And if there is a crevice or chasm beneath the body, such vio-lent intrusion will likely drop all the stones away from us forever."

A panicked expression crossed Brother Francis' face. "Then what do you suggest?" he asked sharply.

"Search with the hematite and the garnet," Master Jojonah replied. "It should be no difficult task in determining if there are any stones about this man, and what they might be. Put a brilliant diamond light into the crack about the arm, then let your spirit enter that place."

Brother Francis, not recognizing the larger reasons Father Abbot Markwart might have for destroying this potential shrine, thought about it for a few moments, then agreed.

He also agreed to let Master Jojonah spiritually accompany him into the crevice, since the Father Abbot was too weary to return to his body anytime soon, and Jojonah was the only one who could identify Brother Avelyn; Francis had only seen the man a couple of times, for Avelyn had deserted the abbey shortly after Francis had entered it.

Soon after, the identity was confirmed, along with the knowl-edge that only one stone, a sunstone, was anywhere near the man, though Master Jojonah sensed the residual magical emanations of another stone, the giant amethyst. The master said nothing of the amethyst to Francis, and had no trouble convincing the younger monk that a simple sunstone, which were already in abundance at St.-Mere-Abelle, was not worth the trouble, risk, and lost time of exhuming the body.

With Francis leading, they left Avelyn then.

Master Jojonah was the last to turn to go, pausing at the sight, re-flecting on his own faith and remembering the young monk who had inadvertently taught him so very much.

When they got back to camp, Jojonah pressed a diamond into Brother Braumin's hand, whispered directions to him, and bade him go and see the sacred place. "I will delay Brother Francis long enough for you to return," he promised.

Brother Braumin, not quite understanding, but recognizing from Jojonah's tone the importance of the journey, nodded and turned to go.

"And Brother Braumin," the master said, turning the man about. "Take Brother Dellman with you. He, too, should see this man, and this place."

Brother Francis was in a foul mood indeed when he learned they would be delayed in leaving, for a wagon had somehow broken a wheel.

Still, they were on the move before the dawn. The centaur, seeming fit again - though Francis hadn't yet dared to remove the armband - and playing his pipes, trotted behind Brother Francis' wagon, chained to the frame and with several monks keeping close guard on him.

Neither Brother Braumin, Master Jojonah, nor Brother Dellman spoke a word that night and all the next day, their voices stolen by an image they would carry for the rest of their lives, and by a bar-rage of profound reflections on their purpose and their faith.