Above Staravan’s Wildejun temple, the human deities stood shoulder to shoulder. Together, they faced the growing darkness that was Walshira manifest. Together, they gathered their power and poured it into a shield meant to stop the Old One from reaching the priests fleeing Staravan’s roof.

  Enshul was the only one missing, and she had been there bare moments before.

  Dark laughter danced along the shield’s edge, battering their resolve. It taunted them, teasing them with images of the temples Walshira had crushed, priests he had murdered on his altars…souls he had stolen.

  It continued, until some had trouble holding their place in favor of reaching out and attempting to destroy the being that mocked them. Those closest to Staravan tried to keep an eye on him. The deities on either side, wrapped their arms around his waist in support.

  The continuing sacrifice of his priests in Toramar tore at him as nothing else had torn before. He tried not to hear their cries, to go to their aid, vowing to avenge the loss of their souls with the Old One’s defeat.

  He resisted the urge to break from his place in the shield and go to their aid…or to relinquish his place on the line and flee to the privacy of his domain. He fought that need, but knew there was rapidly coming a time when he would be able to deny his servants, and his pain, no more.

  He didn’t try to find Enshul. He knew where she was, could feel her seething resentment at his orders. She had wanted to stand fast within the shield, foiling Walshira in personal confrontation, and Staravan had forbidden it.

  “Take the priests to the ship in the bay,” he’d ordered. “Recruit the fisherfolk to act as ferries, so that I can start a new temple in a land far from Toramar’s claws. We will all start temples there, for we will be welcome in the land of the Vicarey-Esselwoods.”

  “Father!” she’d cried, but her protests had fallen in the face of a unified pantheon and, outvoted by the other gods, she had found herself doing as she’d been asked.

  “Very well,” she had snarled, leaving in a flurry of dark-petaled magic. “I will go and prepare the way.”

  * * *

  On the sleek dark ship at the river mouth, Captain Anton Vicarey-Esselwood had seen the soldiers enter Wildejun, his heart leaping with concern for his brother and the priestess they had fought so hard to secure. Through the spyglass he kept at his waist, he’d watched them jog through the town.

  “They’re making for the temple,” he’d murmured, surprised when his first mate had replied.

  “Aye.”

  They’d watched the attack unfold, together, noting when figures had slipped from an alley and moved quickly along the dock front. A squad of soldiers had come down the main road and turned onto the dock front just as the first fishing boat had ridden to its moorings.

  Anton had watched it navigate the seething maelstrom swirling at the rivers’ meeting and admired the courage such an act had taken. His boat was sturdier, and he refused to risk going any closer to what the locals called the Meld.

  “Fetch my brother,” he ordered, and he didn’t mean the one currently escorting their newly acquired priestess along the Wildejun docks.

  “Aye, captain,” the mate said, and hurried to find Andres.

  They returned shortly after, and by then the skies had turned dark and the scent rising from the Meld had changed from river mud and salt-touched fresh water to something that hinted at death and decay. If the change hadn’t been so new, Anton might have dismissed it as normal river smells, but now…

  He turned to Andres, gesturing at the shore.

  “How close does it match?” he demanded, and his brother didn’t need to ask what he meant.

  Instead, he studied the scene on the docks before reluctantly nodding his head.

  “It’s the same,” he admitted. “See? They speak to the patrol. Soon they will run.”

  As Tarquin did exactly that, Andres continued.

  “Now, their rescuer appears.”

  As he spoke, a figure leaned out from between two houses and Tarquin and Linna changed direction to follow it.

  “He’ll take them to safety.” Andres spoke with a surety Anton didn’t feel.

  “And her?” Anton asked, indicating a small figure that darted out of the cover of several crates and barrels after the patrol had passed.

  “The vision said nothing of her,” he answered, and they settled to watch her as she ran to the first fishing boat as it docked.

  At first the sailors seemed to refuse her, but she made a series of wild motions with her hand, gesturing toward the sky, the temple, and the soldiers stumbling back from the gap in the houses. Whether it was that, or something she said, the fishermen changed their minds, steadying the boat at the dock but not mooring.

  “What’s going on?” Anton murmured, as the girl was led to where the fishing captain stood.

  Anton wished he could hear what was said, but the churn of water and the rumble of threatening thunder combined with the distance to thwart him. He was still intently studying the scene when another form materialized on the deck beside the sailors.

  She spoke to the sailors, and he wished he could hear her voice above the roar of the waters, especially given their reaction.

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  What can she possibly say to calm them?

  * * *

  “The maid speaks the truth.”

  The captain jumped in fright at the cold, melodic tones that hit his ears, then shivered bone deep. As he turned to see who spoke, one of his sailors shouted in alarm, and the woman behind him turned, her hands raised and alight with magic.

  “Kevarag…” some of the fishermen whispered.

  Their voices trembled at the sight of her.

  “Witch,” came from others.

  “Pah! I am neither,” the mottle-skinned woman replied. Lightning flashed in eyes of a rich golden amber, and her pale gold hair lifted as though caught in an invisible storm…but one that kept the strands from her face.

  The sailors gaped.

  “I am Enshul, and the gods request your aid.” She gestured toward the shore where figures wrapped in priestly garb were emerging from the shadows between the buildings along the dock. Some cautiously exited the Claw, glancing nervously left and right.

  “Why?” the captain challenged. “And how?”

  “Toramar’s king sent soldiers to sack Staravan’s temple,” the goddess replied fiercely.

  “Isn’t that where—” the captain began, but Enshul didn’t allow him time to finish.

  “It is where the servants of the gods have gathered to hear the will of their masters.” She paused, making sure she had their attention before continuing, “The king has told them the priests plot treason.”

  “That’s a lie!” snarled out from one of the sailors.

  “We have to stop them!”

  “Defend the temple!”

  There was a rush of movement toward the boat’s edge.

  “Fools!” the goddess snapped, and they stopped. “The king has also ordered all that go to the temple’s aid be declared traitors and to be taken as such.”

  That brought worry to their expressions, and puzzlement.

  “What… What would the gods have us do, then?” one finally asked.

  “Take your boats to Wildejun’s Wake and Ember’s Spit. Collect the priests gathering there and take them to the ship that sits at the river mouth.”

  “Around the churn?”

  “Around the churn,” Enshul replied. “The gods make war on your behalf, and might not be able to come to your need in time.”

  “And then?” the captain asked. “For the soldiers will know what we’ve done.”

  Enshul gave him a tight-lipped glare.

  “Then you will bring your boats back, gather your wives and children, and flee. Follow the ship if you must, or find another village up-river, away from Toramar’s shores. Even if you do not aid the priests, your lives will depend on that.”

  She looked around, her eyes coming to rest on Staravan’s acolyte. The girl’s face was a mix of fear, trepidation and awe, and her gaze softened as she acknowledged the child, before returning her attention to the captain.

  “Heed the child. Give her the clothes of a fisher’s brat and send her to wake your families and take them to where the priests gather. That way you will not need to return, and they will be gone before the king can think to order them be taken for what you have done.

  “But, Mistress,” one of the fishermen began. “Our whole lives—”

  He stopped, finding he was speaking to thin air.

  The goddess’s manifestation had gone.

  The captain didn’t try to discover where she’d gone..

  “You heard the lady,” he bellowed. “Though we all know ‘tis not she we serve but Lurani, and it is he who will protect us long after she is gone.”

  No-one had an answer for that, but they didn’t need one. All that mattered was that the acolyte was outfitted and running for their families as they untied and prepared to make for the river cove known as Wildejun’s Wake.

  By the time Henna was dressed as a fisher’s brat and had been put ashore, the goddess had visited the rest of the fleet and over half were altering course away from the docks.

  * * *

  Anton watched them from the quarterdeck.

  “What do you think is going on there?” he asked, as Andres leant on the taffrail and watched the fishing fleet. “Where are they going?”

  He watched the fishing boats a moment later, then came to an abrupt decision.

  “Rouse the crew!” he ordered. “Weigh—”

  His next word died unspoken.

  The woman materializing before him looked kevarag save that he knew she was not. He’d seen images of her as human and elven depending on her need. Why she’d chosen a beast-elf form was beyond him, and not his concern. Having her floating a foot off the deck in front of him was.

  Her amber eyes glowed with power, and her long, pale-gold hair whipped around her head, shot through with flickering streaks of blue lightning.

  “Peace,” she said, spreading her hands, palm open before her. “I come on behalf of the gods, seeking aid for their servants.”

  Anton gaped at her.

  “Well, Duke Anton Vicarey-Esselwood?” Enshul demanded when he remained too speechless to reply. “What say you? Will you aid the gods now that your father’s prayer to Skarsht has been answered?”

  The goddess’s reminder of why Tarquin had taken Linna ashore was enough to make him believe what his eyes were telling him was real, and he took a deep breath. Enshul’s scent filled the air, reminding him of roses, but like none he’d ever smelled.

  He gasped, wondering if she was trying to enchant him.

  “My Lady,” he replied, “What service do you require?”

  “Only this,” Enshul answered. “That you receive the servants of the gods with friendship and welcome and give the people of Wildejun an escort and a home, since their assistance renders them in need of one and without the other.”

  “And my father’s prayer?”

  “Abandon them to other care,” the goddess ordered.

  “My brother…” Anton began, only to stop when she met his worried gaze.

  “He will be brought to you in safety, with the priestess by his side,” Enshul answered. “You have my word on that. Now, the priests?”

  “I will aid you,” Anton ceded. “The priests may come aboard.”

  She gave him a satisfied smile, and gestured toward the edge of the churn and the boat coming around its edge.

  “Very good. The first boat comes.”

  “Draw that boat alongside!” Anton roared, seeing his men about to wave the vessel away. “Take the priests aboard, and tell the captain to fall behind us if he wishes to be part of the fleet.”

  “Fleet?” his brother asked. “Anton, what are you doing?”

  “What the goddess bids,” he snapped back, then raised his voice. “All hands on deck! All hands!”

  Footsteps thundered through the deck below, and a hatch crashed to the deck as it was thrown back. His two men emerged looking slightly tousled, and like their minds were still catching up to their abruptly wakened forms.

  “Good enough, my Lady?” he asked, turning back to the goddess, and stopping when she wasn’t there.

  He sighed, laughing softly at his own chagrin, then hurried to greet the boarding priests.

  Glancing at the village, he saw a swirling darkness had gathered around the edges of the Staravan’s temple.

  * * *

  The Old One’s darkness gathered just beyond the touch of the gods’ shield. Its depths roiled and swirled like the folds of a storm with every probe he made. Looking beyond the shield’s glare he could see the priests leaving the temple. Beyond that, where the river met the docks, he thought he could see the shadow of a figure, flickering as it appeared and disappeared from the decks of the ships in the river’s mouth.

  Shifting his attention, he watched as his soldiers began their assault on the temple’s entrance, and raged at their failure. As he did, he caught a faint flicker of movement that was neither priest, nor boat, nor fisherman and tried to bring it into focus.

  It didn’t and he struck the shield in frustration, causing its surface to flare with defensive brightness.

  When the brightness faded, the source of the movement had disappeared.

  Curling back into himself, Walshira considered the shield, once more. As he chose another place to strike, the priests clambered into fishing boats, the unmistakable figure of the deity of thieves overseeing their escape.

  Rage boiled through him, tinging his vision with red, as he gathered more darkness around him before, with a force born of anger, rage and frustration, he forged the dark into a blade and hammered at the shield preventing him from reaching those he considered his rightful prey. In doing so, he blinded himself to matters he would have seen and assessed as more important.

  Fortunately for those matters, he focused on pounding the shield, causing the gods to stagger.

  In answer they bowed their heads and threw their remaining strength into keeping the shield in one piece.

  In desperation, Walshira drew more strength from the king’s temple, and summoned twisted elementals to his aid.