Roland trudged side by side with the rugged Tishaaran, Sloat, over the cracked, crusted mud that spider-webbed as far as the eye could see across the bottom of a dried lake. Ahead of them, animals padded along in irregular clusters, separated more or less according to species. Their was no marching. No order or discipline.Only the squadrons of swallows and falcons soaring overhead in tight formation showed any degree of organization.

Anxious about what he had gotten himself into, Roland took inspiration from his memories of the animals' parting ceremony. With the bright eyes glowing in the night from every limb and tuft of grass, ancient Hairrison, the porcupine, had led them in, of all things, a prayer. For a brief time, the woods had come alive. The starlit clearing burst forth in a rumbling harmony of thousands of voices spanning more than four octaves, praising their creator in words that all noble-hearted Fourth Realm beasts memorized from their earliest days. The words had been drummed deep into Roland’s soul:

Come to us, Everlasting One,

Not as You are

But as we may understand.

Free our world, Compassionate One,

Not of tears

But of injustice.

Give us strength, Almighty One,

Not to subdue the world

But to care for it.

Grant us laughter, Joyful One,

Not to mock creation

But to echo your pleasure.

Grant us wisdom,

To recognize what we know not.

Teach us to roam,

That we may find where home lies.

Shower us with mystery,

That we may be ever more certain of You.

As he trudged alongside Sloat, Roland’s meditation on the events of that sacred night was interrupted by a bluish-black missile shooting out of the sky. It was a swallow diving down to report the sighting of fires from a huge camp among the bluffs that formed the rugged peninsula of Point Harrow. None of the birds were able to get close enough to view the strength of the army that fortified the point--the air above it was dark with crows, hawks, and jays ready to intercept any intruders. But several of the scouts had gotten close enough to see a purple inferno erupt and spew flames into the sky at the rear of the camp, near the cliffs that overlooked the sea. Then, several moments after they had ignited, the flames coughed and flickered and faded altogether. 

“No doubt about it,” said Roland, grimly. “Ishyrus is there.”

“Nor are we too late,” offered Sloat. “The flame has not taken hold. Ishyrus has not yet broken through.”

The animal force plodded through pitiful stands of jack pine that choked and withered aroune the edges of the dried mud desert like beasts dying of thirst. Roland was beginning to fell cottom-mouthed himself. Nothing seemed real to him anymore. Here he was trooping along in the middle of a casting call for Noahls ark, trying to decide why it did not rell any weirder than it did.

I guess once you've crossed over in the Fifth, nothing else will ever seem strange by comparison.

Again a feathered meteor screamed down at them from the sky. This one was much larger—so large that Roland ducked for cover until he realized it was one of the eagles he had seen talking with Hatanwas earlier in the day. This gigantic bird dove down to report the presence of an army advancing on them from the hills that guarded the peninsula.

The beasts responded with raised hackles and throaty snarls. In no particular order, they closed ranks and lowered their heads, every muscle tensed.

Roland felt conspicuously foolish standing near the front line of thisarmy, bearingno weapon whatsoever. "Tell me again why we are here," he whispered to Sloat. "Just what are we supposed to be doing?"

Sloat frowned. "I do not have the slightest idea."

Even forewarned, Roland was not prepared for the deafening shout that crashed down upon them. The hills exploded with wild men, dressed in goatskins and brandishing thick clubs, shrieking maniacally. One flankmoned to Hatanwa’s side in the front line of the animal force, Roland and Sloat had a clear view of the wild men, dressed in goat skins and brandishing thick clubs, poured out of the hills, shrieking maniacally. One flank of the wild men was covered by a surging mob of Raxxars. Bounding and gliding down the hill with the air in thir wings, they soon outstripped all their allies. On the other flank, a phalanx of armored Pharitans from the Third Realm jogged forward i more controlled, lethal precision. Behind them swaggered Fourth Realm urchins, their broad foreheads encased in iron helmets honed to a sharp point. Huge rats streamed through the ranks of the more human creatures. 

His encounter with the Fifth Realm had immunized Roland against terror to some degree. Roland stared in awe at the scene that unfolded before him, feeling as though he stood in the front row of the latest high-tech virtual reality ride. He stared in awe at the scene, feeling as though he stood in the front row of the latest high-tech virtual rality ride, oblivious to the threat of death that bore down on him.

As the enemy drew close enough that he could see the sweat glistening on the stringy hair of the wild men, and could distinguish the proud battle cries of individual men ixed with the yammering of Raxxars, the sea of beasts beside him exploded into action. Before the enemy could make contact, the animals sprang to the counterattack with the speed and ferocity of a school of starving piranhas in a feeding frenzy. Hatanwa led the sprint into the startled ranks of the wild men. Mud, fur, and blood flew through the air; snarls, howls, and shrieks filled the plain.

The battle was over almost before it began. The charge of the beasts broke the enemy ranks like a Lumberjack ax splintering a glass pane, and scattered them into the hills. Roland wiped his eyes of mud dust, and blinked several times in disbelief but the scene held. The enemy that had seemed so menacing and had assaulted them so savagely now fled in headlong retreat.

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Roland regarded the ragged collection of creatures with new respect. “Wow! That was awesome! We are the champions, my friend! Let’s get to Point Harrow, kick their butts, and write an end to this story.”

“Would that it were so easy,” said Packory, his wide eyes studying the flight of the enemy. “But this was no attack. Only a probe. I suspect it’s Ishyrus’s way of taking stock of our army. Now it knows what we have and how best to defeat us.”

“But you saw what we did to them!” insisted Roland. “We scared me to death and I’m on our side!”

“The attackers were few and of poor quality,” scoffed Packory. “Many were lower realmers who have never encountered Fourth Realm animals. You can see for yourself that Fourth Realm beasts are nothing like what you are used to. I say again,this was no battle. Ishyrus ordered this attack to educate his armies. To show them that we are not merely dumb lower realm creatures who have been trained in telepathic communication. They have now seen that thought and vision and a scrap of unified purpose, when combined with natural animal ferocity and strength make Fourth Realm animals extremely dangerous. Next time they will not be so careless.”

Indeed, the beasts took no satisfaction in their success. They barely paused to lick the few wounds that were inflicted. Then onward they moved in their ragged, sprawling horde, steering a course for the peninsula.

“I must say, you were cool under the pressure of your first battle,” Packory said to Roland. “Don’t think we beasts didn’t notice that. You stood right out in front without a trace of fear, like a man watching a thunderstorm off in the distance.” 

“As did Sloat,” said Roland, deflecting some of the praise to him companion. “It’s not like we did anything at all. Never lifted a finger to fight. We’re not really warriors, you know.

“Not yet,” conceded Packory. “Yet I must say, that while Sloat stood his ground as well, he had his weapon out to protect himself. In a defensive crouch. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's the smart thing to do.

"But you, Roland, never bent your knees, never even flinched, never even flexed a muscle. Amazing! Is that what a spin the Fifth Realm does to you?”

“I don’t know. Once you’ve gone to war in the Fifth Realm, this sort of thing does seem like the jv game. “

“The what?”

“Never mind. I guess I just have a hard time figuring out what’s real and what’s a dream sometimes. Usually, I'm too scared to know how scared I should be."

"Well, you and the Tishaaran did well. You did very well."

As the frog bounded away, Roland looked questioningly at Sloat. "What did we do?"

Sloat shrugged. "'Well,' apparently."

Roland grinned. "Now that I think about it, that was some world class spectating on our part. In fact, i the rich and glorious tradition of passive observation, I would modestly submit that we observed as heroically as any mortal has ever observed. Centuries from now, they will be singing songs about how well we noticed what was taking place on the field of battle today."

Like all Tishaarans, Sloat struggled with the concept of sarcasm. "I do not know what you are talking about. But as for me, I still do not know what I am doing in this army,"

Roland wished Delaney were present to hear some of this. So much was lost in translation between worlds with Sloat. At least Delaney might have shared a raised eyebrow with him, if not a giggle. "Well, if I ever find out, you'll be the first to know."

Sloat looked at him quizzically. "If you find it out, how could I be the first to know?"

The army of the beasts did not halt until they came to a broad hill dotted with evergreens, as stunted and gnarled as if every day of their existed had been a furious struggle against steep odds. From the peak of this hill, they could see Point Harrow rising up against the sky and sea behind a treeless moraine of hills, ditches, and sinkholes. A cold wind blew unchallenged off the sea, fluffing up Sloat’s beard so that it stood straight out like a flag. Roland’s hair, grown long since its last cutting in Tishaara, whipped across his face. 

“I suppose you can think of something good to say about this wind,” he shouted to Sloat.

“If he cannot, I can,” said Packory. “I love it! f it holds, we may be spared a plague of the enemy’s black flies and gnats. Alas, I do not expect it to last. We beasts have no powers of influencing wind and weather like many of our Fourth Realm neighbors. I fear the weather will be exactly what the enemy desires it to be, unless the Gnomes get here soon and counteract them with some magic of their own.”

“I’m a little hazy on that. You say there is magic in the Fourth Realm?”

Packory blinked at him. “Yes. And here’s another little-known fact: there’s water in the ocean.”

Although the hills obscured the view, Roland saw enough glimpses of the enemy between the ridge on which he stood and the tallest bluff of Point Harrow to sober him.  Judging by the thousands of tents and the beehive of activity between them, and factoring in those hidden from view, Ishyrus had gathered an immense force. Yet, despite Packory’s belittling of their accomplishment, Roland could not help but take hope in the fearsome power of the beast counterattack on the dried mud flats.

Packory, too, seemed unfazed by what lay before them. “Better than I had hoped,” he said, squinting into the swirling dust. “Ishyrus takes a risk. The terrain is more open than I had been led to believe. If the bison, wolves, and Gnomes all show up, we may prove a match for the enemy. Providing we get to Ishyrus before it breaks the bonds. Of course, if its Fifth Realm powers kick in, all bets are off.” 

Scarcely were his words out than Roland detected a new danger approaching from the rear. A long line of torches wound along the western hills to the limits of sight, the flames blown sideways by gusts of wind. In the uneven light, Roland could just make out the features of the foremost of this army. They were humanish creatures, not particularly handsome, tending toward overlarge facial features. They covered their heads with hoods, and carried ponderous clubs, axes, and short, broad-tipped spears, and knives. 

Roland’s heart sank. “Tell me we’re not surrounded!”

“Not at all,” said Packory. “They are Color Gnomes. Solid allies. They wasted no time in answering the summons.”

“Exactly who or what is a Color Gnome?” asked Roland, recovering from the scare. “I know they have something to do with the color lodes.”

“They come from the Spectral Hills,” said Packory. He betrayed neither relief nor anxiety at their arrival. “They dwell in a wasteland where the soil yields only the hardiest crops and provides scant living. But you could sooner persuade a fish to move to land than get a Gnome to abandon the Spectral Hills. They crave the color lodes buried under the roots of the mountains.

“I do not deny that I would love to see one of the lodes,” he admitted. “They say that color in its raw state is a splendor that overwhelms all other beauty. The most brilliant sunset pales beside the mere reflection of an orange lode. The scarlet of Droom is as the washed-out rust of iron compared to the red lodes. The lodes are far more coveted than gold and the Gnomes hoard their treasure jealously.”

“I don’t get it,” said Roland. “Are you saying that color is like an element? Is it solid material or liquid, or what?”

"Neither sold not liquid; it has a form all its own.Packory shook his head. “It has a form all its own. In most of the world, color rarely appears as a single element. But they say that the lodes of the Fourth Realm are the tears of the Seraphim, and so they do not have form as we know it. When they fell upon this land from the eyes of the departing Spirit folk at the creation of the realm bonds, most of them dispersed among the sand or evaporated into the air. But some of the tears seeped into the deep cracks of rock in the Spectral hills. They collected in tiny pools at the foundation of the mountains where, over the course of centuries, they became encased in transparent shells. 

“Occasionally, a Gnome has nicked a lodestone by accident in the course of their digging. They say that when this happens, the land drowns in a tidal wave of color brighter than the sun and deeper than the hues of the ocean depths or the pitch blackness of a cave.”

“Now that I’d like to see!” said Roland.

“Please,” cautioned Packory in a low voice. “Do not even joke of such things. The Gnome miner who accidentally scrapes the edge of a lode is banished from the Spectral Hills for life. The color lodes are precious to the Gnomes beyond anything they can imagine. Only the most highly honored of the elders are granted even a glimpse of a lodestone.”

“What’s the point of having something that beautiful if no one ever sees it?”

“I warn you, Roland. Be careful how you speak of the lodes and the Gnomish customs of dealing with them. The Gnomes will be particularly prickly about that subject on the battlefield.”

“Why?”

“Because in times of war, the lodes are especially vulnerable. They are allowed out of the Spectral Halls only in time of battle, each chief carrying one precious lode on a chain around his neck. The chieftains use them as inspiration for their soldiers. There is not a Gnome alive who, upon seeing the gem held briefly to the light, cares anything for his own safety. Each will swear to defend it with his life, and, to a Gnome, they will carry out that oath.”

  He hopped closely to Sloat and Roland. “Never ask them to show you the lodes. Do not even mention them in their presence. In fact, it is best not to let on that you have even heard of them. I warn you, although they are our allies, that army would kill every animal here without mercy if they thought any of them was contemplating a peek at the smallest of their gems.” 

“What kind of warriors are they?” asked Roland, his survival instincts surfacing.

“They are a grim people,” said Packory. “A grim people for grim times.”