The golden chariot lurched and bounced north along the forest trail—two perfectly normal horses pulling it along through the swampy underbrush. Maurice, Arabelle, and Gregor held on as best they could, in what Terry was calling a tactical retreat.

“If we can’t attack by air,” she said, “then we must meet up with Gregor’s army and coordinate our next move by land. Besides, another day of rest may give Arabelle the strength to call the horses.”

But it was hardly a day of rest—the chariot was never meant for these narrow, treacherous trails, and the perfectly normal drafthorses that Arabelle had conjured were struggling to pull it along. They were only a few miles along before Terry realized that they were leaving a trail as easy to read as a picture book.

“Can you use your wooden wand to cover our tracks?” Terry asked Maurice, and he was able to figure out an adequate spell. Still, the going was rough and the day was hot. By the time the old, thick forest dimmed further in response to the waning day, they had not traveled nearly enough miles.

“We must go on,” Terry said. “We have to meet Gregor when he arrives.” Arabelle and Gregor agreed grimly, and they continued their journey in the dark, fetid evening. The forest barely cooled, but just grew so impenetrably dark that they felt choked by it. Terry sat in the front, holding her golden ball, while Arabelle guided the horses next to her. Beyond the slight glow of the ball, there was nothing but eerie darkness, full of strange sounds.

The forest felt like a presence—like it was angry that they were there. The underbrush grew deeper and thicker, and although the ball glowed steadily, it seemed that it was impossible to move forward.

“This has got to be the way,” Terry said.

“Whether it is or not, if we can’t physically move forward, it hardly matters,” Maurice replied.

“This place is so creepy,” Arabelle whispered. “Even the horses feel it.”

It was true. The two draft horses were nervous, their ears pulled back. They pawed the ground anxiously.

“I wish Gregor was here,” Terry said, “with his axe. He’d cut right through all of this so that we could move.”

“We’ll have to do the best we can,” Maurice said, and the two of them began to clear away what they could so that the chariot could move forward.

“Shh,” Arabelle said. “Do you hear that?”

They stopped to listen. It was an unusual cacophony of sound. It didn’t sound like an army marching—it was too undisciplined and raw for that. There was screaming and chanting and the sounds of movement, but not like anything was planning to attack. It seemed weirdly—celebratory.

“That’s a witches’ sabbath,” Arabelle said. “Some sort of bacchanal—they must be tearing through the words. And it sounds like it’s getting closer.”

“Should I raise the golden orb?” Gregor asked.

“Not yet,” Terry said. “It’ll just call attention to us. So far, they don’t know we’re here.”

They crouched beside the horses, and Terry slipped the golden ball back in its pouch. The witches were screaming and singing as they charged madly through the forest, falling upon the creatures they disrupted and tearing them limb from limb, drinking their blood. They were on their way to join the wizard’s army, mad with pleasure at his ascendance. They drew closer and closer to the chariot, and suddenly a terrifying sound echoed through the forest. The witches all began to sniff their air greedily, like hounds.

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“That’s blood,” one of them said. “Warm, delicious blood!”

“Now, Maurice!” Terry shouted, and not a moment too soon. He began he utterance, and the orb rose around them, as a filthy cadre of witches dressed in black rags began to swarm, their mouths and hands stained red with blood. They could not penetrate the golden orb, but they immediately began their own utterances, and a cloud of evil smoke descended upon the group.

Arabelle muttered something very quietly, and the smoke dissipated.

How the witches howled! Their rage overtook them. Teresa exited the orb and hurled her golden ball. But like the army of the undead, they had some sort of protection against it, and it bounced harmlessly away from them before returning to her hand. The witches muttered again, and a bolt of lightning struck Terry in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped and Arabelle rushed out to help her return to the orb.

“Are you okay?” Arabelle said, and Terry, gasping, nodded. “It’s on you,” she said.

“I’ve got this,” Arabelle replied. She raised her platinum wand, and began speaking in that bell-like tone that indicated a powerful spell. A cool, blue light descended from the sky and began to illuminate the forest—first the tops of the trees, then the trunks, then the forest floor, until everything was visible. Terry saw to her horror that they were surrounded by hundreds of witches, each one hungry for their blood.

Yet, the blue light seemed to have a terrible effect on them. Instead of screaming in rage and bloodlust, their screams turned to pain, and their flesh began to smoke and stink. Terry forced herself to watch as the witches dissolved in the clinical blue light that Arabelle had conjured, until there was nothing left of them but their filthy rags.

“Wow,” Terry said, as Maurice stopped his utterance. She turned to look at Arabelle, and was shocked at how her appearance had changed. She seemed older now, but not as if she had aged. Instead, all of the roundness had left her face and she seemed now more of a type of wizard herself.

“I took in all of their energy,” Arabelle said, and her voice retained some of the strange power it had when she uttered her spells. “At dawn, we can call the horses.”

“Are you still—on our side?” Maurice asked. “No offense.”

Arabelle laughed, and her voice went back to normal, almost. “Yes, of course I am,” she said.

“And you think you can call the horses?” Terry asked.

“I know,” Arabelle said.

“Then we can leave this wretched forest and join Gregor,” Maurice said.

“No,” Terry said. “We’re going to attack the wizard one more time.”

“I agree,” Arabelle said. In a wave of her wand, she conjured away the poor long-suffering draft horses, and conjured up a fire. They warmed themselves and waited for dawn. When the deep forest lightened, Arabelle stood up.

“Let’s go,” she said, and waved her wand at the fire. It disappeared.

“How are the horses going to get down here in this wretched forest?” Maurice asked.

“They’re not going to come down here. We’re going to go up there,” Arabelle said. “Use your wand and float us up.”

“Okay!” Maurice said. He waved the wand and uttered the spell, and the three of them, along with the chariot, floated gently up, up, up, until they were suspended above the canopy of trees. There, they could see that the sun was already well above the horizon. Arabelle brought out her own wand and called the great beasts to her.

“Aethon! Pyrois!”

This time they came immediately, and the chariot attached itself to the horses in mid-air, while the three companions stepped in.

“This time,” Arabelle said, “the wizard will not survive!”

And the chariot began to fly, taking the three to their ultimate destiny.

“We will land the chariot on the top turret of the sand castle,” Arabelle said. “And we will fight the wizard in his miserable lair!”

They flew through the sky on a familiar path, and soon the great towers of the sand castle were visible below them. The armies were now clearly made up of supernatural beings, and smaller. The flying wraiths were nowhere to be seen.

They circled the castle once, and Arabelle pulled in the reins. The horses obeyed her perfectly, and the chariot came in for its landing on the top turret. There were no guards, and no one flung arrows or stones. Arabelle sent the horses home, and they flew into the sun. Terry’s heart sank as she realized that they had no quick means of escape. She felt like she had burned her ship on the shore. Weapons drawn, the three left the chariot and began to descend the staircase, in search of the evil wizard.