The forces of Ishyrus cheered as the thunder surrounded them, pleased with the fresh evidence of their master’s genius. However, their grinning, leering faces soon dissolved into confusion and then fear.
“The bison! They’ve come!” screamed the eagles, diving down into the enemy.
“And the wolves! The wolves are with them!”
The wolves arrived first in their disciplined formations, rank upon rank sweeping across the hills and leaping upon the enemy. Behind them, raising swirling clouds of dust, a boiling, thundering sea of bison surged toward the ridge.
Taken by surprise on the threshold of victory, the enemy wavered. The edges of their deep ranks curled back, splintered, and then broke. Barbarian and beast, Pharitan and Raxxar, Urchin and Brooking all sought shelter from the stampede. Even several of the Terrible Ones fell as the hoofed giants of the plain plowed into the front ranks of their foes, tossing, battering, trampling. Although their momentum was slowed and then halted by the sheer weight of flesh in their path, they fought on, parrying the enemies’ thrusts with their horns. The wolves, who had made less of an initial impact, now made greater inroads. They attacked in well-coordinated squads to open up a path to their beleaguered friends on the ridge.
“Where is Ishyrus?” roared the bison, to the exhausted animals and their allies. “Death to Ishyrus!”
“Too late!” cried the beasts. “Ishyrus has broken through. See how the purple flames burn far off in the cape. See the tree wraiths who stalk the battlefield. Our realms are laid bare to the Nephilim. The realm bonds are broken.”
The bison charge slowed and eventually dissolved into confusion as the terrible news spread. But the wolf leadership made a quick decision.
“Fall back! Back to camp!” they called. “We shall cover you!”
No one who had struggled for life so long and so desperately against such odds could refuse the invitation. With grateful cries, the beasts streamed through the gaps in the ranks of the foe. Among those who Roland saw backpedaling to the southern ridges was a man in a powder blue tunic.
Thank God, Sloat survived! No matter that this would be only a short reprieve. Neither Roland nor any of the allies who had fought on the battlefield held any illusions over what had happened. They had failed in their desperate, hopeless bid to keep the bonds intact, to protect their realm from the ravages of the Nephilim. Now that the realm bonds had been breeched, there could be no victory of any kind, nor any peace in the realmlands from this day forward. All the same, Roland felt enormous relief at seeing his Tishaaran friend still among the living.
Even with the arrival of the bison and wolves, the enemy wielded superior numbers. Worse yet, the tree wraiths seemed to be growing in numbers and in power. Although it was morning and the sun was yet rising, their shadows somehow lengthened, reaching deeper into the ranks of their wary enemy. A few of the new arrivals, who in the heat of their charge took no notice of the gray trees, learned first-hand the terror and death brought by these fell spirits.
Chama and Ubor kept their forces fighting furiously until they freed the last besieged pockets of beast and Gnome. Then, when all were rescued who yet stood, they closed ranks and executed their own retreat, orderly for the wolves and chaotic for the bison.
The enemy apparently were satisfied with their day’s work. Cawing, laughing, snorting, and hurling vile insults, they retired to their camps among the hollows and wide valleys near the seaward bluffs of Point Harrow. The trees vanished like a morning mist burning off in the sunlight, leaving the battleground eerily deserted.
The enemy retreated far enough for the animals and Gnomes to retrieve their dead and wounded from the field, a gesture of compassion attributed to their leader Ishyrus. Whatever had spurred this immortal being to its ruinous attack on the realm bonds and into an unholy alliance with those who served it this day, it was still a Seraph by nature.
Roland, determined to be useful at last, joined in the task of caring for the dead and wounded. All through the day, he worked silently alongside the raccoons who, being the cleverest with their hands, had taken on the bulk of the healing duties. He fought back revulsion and sorrow as he stepped between the pools of blood and the torn flesh, and heard the moans of the dying--the first authentic visions of death he had ever known.
One of the last victims carried back up the hill from the battlefield was a small, human-looking shape lying limp in the arms of a weary, sweat-soaked Sloat. Roland assumed the victim to be a small Gnome, or perhaps the remainder of a Gnome hacked to pieces in the fray.
“At least you’re still here, Sloat,” said Roland, quietly. “I thought I saw you go down.”
Sloat said nothing, but shook his head sadly at the creature he gently cradled. Roland then saw that the clothing, ripped and soaked with crimson blood, was not Gnomish. With a chill, he recognized the obscenely gashed figure as none other than Digtry.
Sloat bore his small burden back to the wind-scoured dune that he and Roland had chosen for their camp, and laid him on the sand. Roland sank to his knees beside the two of them, the stress of the sleepless night and heroic struggle overwhelming him. Although he was still breathing, fitfully, Digtry lay so badly mutilated that Sloat and Roland could hardly determine where to begin to nurse his wounds--not that it particularly mattered, other than to lend what comfort they could provide in his final moments. No mortal could survive such wounds.
Whatever tiny reservoir of hope that Roland had harbored for a future in the realmlands died as he saw the blood oozing from the torn and mangled body. Digtry was by far the best of them. If he could not escape the destruction wrought by Ishyrus, what hope was there for the rest?
He had quite lost track of time when two familiar figures hovered over his shoulder. Slumped with fatigue, caked with grime, Berch and Belfray joined the mournful vigil. Although nicked and bruised, and numbed by the carnage, they at least seemed to be in one piece.
Roland and Sloat stood, and the reunited expedition greeted each other with solemn hugs: even Berch accepted his without reservation.
Scratching the filthy salt-and-pepper beard that had grown scraggly since Roland had last seen it, Berch looked at the dying man beside them. “So is he going to make it?”
“No,” said Sloat. “His wounds are mortal.”
“He’s a wizard, you know,” said Berch.
Roland and Sloat looked at him in surprise.
“Yeah, a powerful one,” Berch continued. “You don’t suppose he knows some trick that’ll pull him through this?”
“Digtry is a wizard?” repeated Roland.
Sloat nodded. “Yes, I should have seen that. It explains so much. It explains why the snow turned around in the Emperor Mountains. It may, in fact, explain why he still breathes, for no one that I know of could sustain such wounds and still live. Yet not even a wizard is immune from death. He is slipping away and will soon be gone.”
As their friend gasped for breath that rattled in his lungs, barely conscious and totally unresponsive, his body shaking with pain, Roland began to realize just how far beyond him was this thing called death. Or life. Or the thin, permeable membrane that separated the two. He could not cry, or moan, or even shrink from the grotesque wounds. All he could do was brace himself against the emptiness that swelled within, growing so huge it all but consumed him. He was surprised to find how much he had had missed this little man over the past days. And though he sat stoically now, he wondered if that was simple shock and numbness. How would he hold up when the last shovelful of earth sealed Digtry off from the world of the living?
“I had been so looking forward to this day--to us all getting back together,” said Belfray, after a time. “I could hardly wait to tell you our story and to learn what had befallen you. But now . . .”
“We can still do that,” insisted Berch. “If it were me lying there, I’d hate to spend my last hours as a centerpiece for a death watch. I’d want to go out listening to my friends swapping stories about how they kicked ass in the old days. Even if the old days are just a only a few days ago.”
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“Well put, Berch,” said Sloat, solemnly. “Let us start by hearing of the deeds of our friend, Digtry. We would not be alive at this moment if not for the arrival of the wolves and bison, and I am certain he played the key role in that.”
They sat in a solemn vigil among the dunes around their doomed friend as though encircling a campfire, huddling close together in the chill morning air to share whatever warmth was left in the dying embers of their souls. Each in turn told his story of the week’s trials and triumphs since they had parted at the Glasswater. Belfray described their work in averting the war between wolves and bison, and of their ride westward on the backs of the great, wooly bison to belatedly answer the summons of the beast council. Sloat told of the chase into and out of the Thousand Valleys. Roland told of the journey to the Fifth Realm. Sloat finished with an account of the animal council, the disastrous attack of that morning, and the destruction of the Fourth Realm bonds.
But although there was amazement at many of the tales, not even Belfray could summon any exuberance in recounting their successes. Nor was there any thanksgiving for surviving their perils and the terrible battle at the Point on this day.
Digtry lay mortally wounded.
And Ishyrus, the renegade Seraph of the Fifth Realm, had won. It had shattered the lower realms’ only protection from the unimaginable terrors of the Spirit Realm. As they watched the life slip away from Digtry, each of them felt with cold certainty that they were previewing the future for all of them.
The Nephilim were coming.
From personal experience with the Nephilim of the Fifth Realm, Roland could not help but believe that Digtry was the lucky one among them.
“How did it happen?” asked Sloat. But no one seemed to know how Digtry had met his end. The question died.
“How about you, Sloat?” asked Roland. “I saw you go down under a huge warrior. How come you aren’t like Digtry or worse?”
Sloat shrugged but made no answer.
“I’ll be proud to tell you that,” croaked the voice of Packory, as the frog bounded over the rise. “I saw it all. Sloat arrived just in the blink of time. One of the moose who was trying to cover the retreat got knocked off his pegs by a Barbarian. As the brute was about to finish him with his club, here comes Sloat to the rescue with that silly whip of his.
“Of course, his little flea bite just irritates the heck out of the enemy, and he goes after Sloat. Knocks him down and raises his club. I guess it takes a club aimed at his skull to get a Tishaaran serious. I don’t know what Sloat did, but that crack boomed so loud that most of the enemy stopped to see what had caused it. Then they saw this big, fat Barbarian howling on the ground, and I could have sworn I smelt burnt flesh.
“Let me tell you, the enemy started tippy-toeing around Sloat like he was one of those tree wraiths. I dare say there’s more than a few hairy hides who wouldn’t have made it back if Sloat hadn’t been here.”
“There were no Raxxars on our end,” said Sloat, dourly. “Our foes simply had no idea what a Tishaaran is. I am sure Ishyrus will send the Raxxars to deal with me next time. They know well what a Tishaaran is and what a tishaarat can and cannot do. As for me, I take pride in nothing I have done today.”
Packory glanced at Digtry and nodded gravely. “I see this is not the best time to come calling. But Hatanwa wants to round up the leaders for an urgent council. Actually, this was the one he wanted to talk to most,” he said, indicating Digtry. “I'm sorry. Sloat, could you fill in?”
“Tishaarans have no business at a council of war.”
Packory glared at him with one eye shut. “You guys are supposed to be the peace experts. Well, that’s just what is needed at the moment. Tempers are erupting like a chain of volcanoes, and Hatanwa needs a cool head to keep the army from blowing to smithereens.”
Sloat tossed his stick in the sand. “In that case I will come.” Still on his knees, he clasped one of Digtry’s hands. “You shall be at peace ere I return, my friend. If indeed you are a wizard, the secrets you carry shall be safe for ever. The Creator be with you, now and forevermore.”
Rising slowly to his feet, he brushed the sand from his knees and spoke softly to Belfray. “See if you can find a few badgers to help.”
“To help what?”
Sloat held his gaze for a long time. “Please do not delay. We shall have little time to do the job properly before duty presses us elsewhere.”
As he trudged away, the air hung heavy with gloom. “Ah, I see what he means," offered Belfray. "At least Digtry will be buried in his home realm, by those who love him. That is more than I foresee for the rest of us.”
“He will be buried, period,” said Berch. “I wouldn’t say that’s a given for anyone else here.”
Roland hid his discomfort at such cavalier statements of burial being spoken over a man not yet gone. Disrespectful though they seemed, he let the words stand. Petty quarreling in front of a dying man leant no honor to anyone. “What makes you say Digtry is a wizard?” asked Roland, emphasizing the word “is.” “He never tells us anything about himself.”
“Berch,” said Belfray, gesturing toward the old man. “He figured out that Digtry is actually a Fourth Realm wizard, which I sort of suspected all along. It is fairly obvious once you step back and consider him. Mark of the jewel, you know.”
“He’s full of secrets, that’s for sure,” said Roland. “He never tells anyone his plans. 'Ignorance has its uses,' he always says. What I would like to know is what he was doing way down in the Second Realm, especially if he’s a Fourth Realmer as
you say? And why did he seek us out when we were running to Tishaara? I’d sure like to know some of that.”
“That’s his job,” said Berch. “That’s what wizards do. The fella saw some suspicious things and started poking around to find out more. He had some powers in a strange sort of way and he was out there putting them to use.”
All this talk of a wizard did not fit. Roland tried to picture Digtry in flowing robes and a long beard and pointy hat, the standard wizard stuff. The image was laughable. Sure, Mageroy had not exactly been decked out that way, either, and hardly fit the image of a wizard, but one could at least imagine him in that role. Digtry? No way.
Mental comparisons between Digtry and Mageroy pricked a cell of Roland’s memory. “Wait a minute! Digtry is a Fourth Realmer, you say?”
“Been sayin’ that for quite a while. Little slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” said Berch.
“If he’s a Fourth Realmer, then he can use the borrowing power. If we can get somebody to loan something to him, maybe we can even save him!”
Packory, who lingered at the edge of their dune hollow, snorted. “Being a Fourth Realmer hardly makes him unique in the Fourth Realm. Look around. We got a field full of wounded critters who can say the same, and what good’s it to them? Master Digtry may be a wizard, perhaps a very good one, but not even he could persuade a Fourth Realmer to loan him a life!”
“No!” said Roland, fueled with a sudden passionate conviction. “That isn’t what I meant. Aren’t there some animals that don’t necessarily die when you cut them up? I mean, besides those little flat worms. The, what do you call them? Planaria—that's it! Besides planaria and little worms like that. Isn’t there some animal that regenerates? I know I read about it somewhere.”
He strained to come up with the answer that was almost within reach. The rest watched him guardedly, fearing Roland had cracked under the strain of battle.
“Oh, Berch, what is it I’m thinking of?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the one with the fancy schooling.”
In a flash it came to Roland. “I know!” Then just as suddenly as hope had appeared, it dissolved. His face fell. “Starfish. You cut up starfish and it doesn't necessarily kill them. some of the pieces start growing into new starfish. But that’s no good. I don’t suppose such a low order of animals would be in on something like the borrowing power, even if you could communicate with them.”
Packory cleared his throat and puffed up his full height. “I let this go once, but I’m not going to let it go again. If you start bringing in your snotty, cockamamy theories of` `low and high’ orders of animals, I’m going to haul you out back and teach you a lesson. It so happens there is a bay not far from here where the sea critters are known to sing out now and then. As the eagle flies, about 20 miles. There are starfish among them.”
Roland rushed to the frog. “And they have the borrowing power?”
“OK, that’s it,” snapped Packory. “Let’s go right now. You and me.”
“No, look I’m sorry, I’m not trying to offend anyone, and we don’t have time for this. Don’t you see? This is it! This is the answer! We’ve got eagles here Packory; you’re small enough to hitch a ride on one. You could fly out quick to that bay you’re talking about and find a starfish and borrow its regenerative power, just until Digtry gets better. I’m right, aren’t I, Packory? It’s the starfish I’m thinking of, isn’t it?”
“What do I know? I’m just a low order of animal,” said Packory, sarcastically.
“It is the starfish. I’m sure of it now. Would you go and find them?”
“No,” said Packory.
“Why not?” said Roland. “You have to!”
“I don’t have to do nothin'. I’m afraid you’re suffering from battle shock, son. Give me one reason why I should go to such trouble for him when there are many others lying around as bad off as him. Even if your notion is right, I can’t go around trying to hunt up starfish for everyone.”
Roland stared incredulously at him. “But we’re talking about--”
“I’m warning you,” said Packory, cocking his head defiantly. “One more word about ‘higher’ animals and I’ll smack you silly! Get a grip, kid! Even if I was stupid enough to attempt such a weird mission, why should I pick your buddy over anyone else? Who am I to play the Creator? What’s the matter with you? You go to war, you expect a tea party? Folks die in wars. You don’t go to pieces over losing one soldier.”
“He’s got a point,” said Berch, quietly. “Let it go.”
“But-!”
“But nothing,” said Packory. “For the last time, no. Not for all the color lodes in the Spectral Hills.”
Roland was nearly beside himself with dismay at Packory’s callous response. But at the same time, he knew that in the insane context of war, the frog was right. It would be pointless to appeal to the frog's sense of compassion. Besides, his only argument for saving Digtry over anyone else was that he wanted it so, and that was a flimsy moral anchor if ever there was one.
“Look,” said Roland, thinking quickly. “We need this guy. Digtry is not just a wizard; he’s one of the best. He’s a genius.”
“He wasn’t so all-fired smart today,” said Packory.
You insensitive jerk! Roland fought back a surge of anger. “Packory, I’ve seen this guy work. I can’t tell you how many times he’s wriggled us out of the most impossible jams. It’s not for his sake I’m asking,” he lied. “You know the trouble the realms are in now. They’ve broken the realm bonds. What are you going to do? What's the use of even having this army now?” He pointed at Digtry. “That guy is the one person the realmlands cannot afford to lose. We all know that. If there’s any way out of this mess, he’s the one who would find it.”
The frog stared at him a long time. “He deserves to live because he’s more useful to us, is that it?”
Roland knew he was creating a mudslide on the slippery slope of ethics. Impulse urged him to try and argue his way out of it until he recognized the knotted, compressed feeling as painfully familiar. Just what he had felt while trying to explain away his folly at Glasswater. The tightness in the stomach.
All at once, he let it go. “No,” he said, wearily. “He does not deserve life more than anyone else here.”
The concession seemed to calm Packory, and he hesitated. “But, of course, you do have a point. He is the person we could least afford to lose. Suppose I was to go along with this notion of yours. What on God’s glorious green earth would make a starfish loan out such a gift to anyone, much less a stranger?”
Winning even a hypothetical concession raised Roland’s hopes so high he nearly ran over Packory. “That’s where we’re counting on you, Packory. I don’t know anything about the Fourth Realm. You’re the one who’s been around. You’ll think of something. I’ve heard you talk. You could sell sand to an Arab.”
“I haven’t a clue as to what that last remark is supposed to mean,” said Packory. But Roland’s compliments did manage to puff him up a bit. “All right, don’t be so pushy. I’ll see what I can do. Geez, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Digtry let out a rattling groan.
“Hurry!” pleaded Roland.