Hazel eyes never leaving his face, she backed away five paces. Throwing her arms wide, she let out a terrifying shriek.

The elves nearest her shrank back, averting their eyes and covering their ears with painted hands. Kiya, Miya, Frez, and Darpo blinked rapidly as their vision blurred, then winced as pain flared in their heads.

This was the Death Shout. According to legend, the greatest shamans among the wild elves could literally scream an enemy to death. Tol did not look away and bore Casmarell’s fury with his eyes wide open.

Beneath her tribal paint, the shaman’s face darkened from the strain of the Shout. Slowly, she brought her hands together, raising the pitch of her scream as her fingers touched. The air itself rang with the concussion, and Casmarell bent forward against the thrust of her own spell. Dust and dry leaves took to the air.

Tol lifted his chin. Although it took effort, he managed to smile.

Finally the shriek died. Staggering from her effort, Casmarell reeled backward, to be caught by her followers. She shook off their help, snapping a peevish phrase Miya did not need to translate.

Awed mutterings circulated among the elves. Not only had the human escaped an agonizing death, he was smiling insolently at their shaman. Was he truly protected by the gods?

Casmarell smote the ground with the butt of her staff. A tremor echoed through the earth, and a clap of thunder rolled through the cloudless blue sky. She spoke a terse incantation and rushed at Tol.

The Dom-shu sisters and Frez surged vainly against the arms restraining them. Darpo got a hand free and downed one of his captors with a punch. Yull watched Tol’s imminent demise with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Tol awaited Casmarell’s rush as calmly as he could. The millstone would be little help if she meant to bash his skull. His legs were free, so he tensed, ready to lash out when she came within reach.

The forked silver tip of Casmarell’s staff drove at Tol’s face. One of his knees twitched upward, but the shaman halted suddenly, still out of reach. The staff wavered over the bridge of his nose for a moment then she touched it to his forehead. A prickling sensation passed down through his heels and up through his head, but otherwise he was unaffected.

Trembling, Casmarell opened her eyes. They were shot through with blood from the strain of her efforts. Seeing Tol still utterly unmoved, her strength failed. The staff dropped from her hands. Her legs buckled, and the elf woman slumped to her knees.

The hands holding Kiya, Miya, Darpo, and Frez slowly slackened, then were withdrawn. One by one, the hundreds of Wildrunner elves faced Tol and went down on one knee, their heads bowed. Frez hurried to untie his commander.

Tol picked up the shaman’s staff. It was a dark stave of vallenwood, worn smooth as brass by years of handling.

Casmarell rose up suddenly, a flint knife in her hand. She did not attack Tol, however, but was trying to pierce her own heart. Kiya caught her wrist from behind and twisted the stone blade from her hand.

The elves also had released Yull. The hulking mercenary took to his heels at once, and the elves ignored him. They began to chant a single word, softly, over and over.

“ ‘Creekstone,’ ” Miya translated. “They mean you, Husband.” This time the epithet was said with respect.

An elf with a brass circlet on his head came forward and prostrated himself before Tol. He spoke then looked to Miya.

The Dom-shu woman was startled. “He says he is Robisart, war chief of their tribe. He hails you as the new shaman of his people.”

Kiya laughed briefly, but Tol hushed her with a glance. “Tell the chief he honors me, but I cannot accept. Besides, he has a shaman.” He helped the miserable Casmarell to stand. She trembled in his grip. “Tell them to take the unicorn and go in peace,” he added.

Tol turned away. He located the dwarf-made sword and returned it to his scabbard. The mob of painted woodland elves followed him, watching his every movement raptly.

Casmarell knelt at his feet and spoke quietly. Miya looked very uncomfortable, and Tol had to prompt her twice to translate the shaman’s words.

“She offers herself to you,” Miya said. “She thinks she can, um, partake of your powers if she becomes your mate.”

There was no laughter from the Ergothians or Kiya this time. Casmarell’s distress was too plain.

Tol took the shaman by the shoulders and lifted her again to her feet. Looking her in the eyes, he said, “Go home, Casmarell. Minister to your people.”

Miya translated as he put the staff back in Casmarell’s hands. She took it, but her expression showed plainly that the ancient wood no longer held any power. The nullstone had apparently swallowed it all.

The Ergothians recovered their horses and gear, abandoning the rest of the caravan. Darpo suggested giving the contents to the elves. Tol agreed, and Miya relayed the news. With whoops, the elves fell upon the wagons and carried off Orlien’s ill-gotten goods.

Tol’s party rode away. They hadn’t gone fifty paces before Kiya spotted Casmarell trailing after them on foot.

The Dom-shu woman’s face held an unaccustomed look of sadness. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed her knife,” she murmured.

Tol frowned. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “She has her Forestmaster back. Miya, tell her again she must go and take care of her people.”

Miya did so, but added, “Husband, you have a way of sticking in people’s heads. I doubt she’ll forget you.”

They turned away again, riding on for a moment in silence, and then Darpo asked, “How did you withstand the elf’s magic, my lord?”

He did not answer but urged Shadow to a trot, eager to put distance between himself, Darpo’s question, and the lonely figure of Casmarell still standing in the road.

They smelled the sea long before they saw it. Salt flavored the wind that tossed the juniper trees so common in the hills above the Gulf of Ergoth. Brown soil changed to white sand.

It was late afternoon, six days out of Tarsis. The clash with the elves had cost them an extra day, as had a running encounter with a dozen bandits the day after they freed the unicorn. Six of the bandits had perished and the rest dispersed, leaving Tol’s party free to make the final dash to the coast.

Frez was scouting ahead. From atop a high dune, he spotted the sea and waved to his companions to hurry and join him. Soon all of them were looking down upon the windy bay.

Although there was no proper port for many leagues, three ships lay offshore. The three were “in irons,” as Darpo phrased it. Prows pointing directly into the wind, sails furled, they remained in place, bobbing slowly atop the low swells.

Unscrupulous captains would draw up to any likely spot on the eastern coast, hang a lantern from their tallest mast, and wait. Eventually, thieves would turn up, eager to unload their swag. Later the smugglers would sail to Ergoth, Sancrist, or Tarsis, peddling stolen property in shady seaside markets. Nevertheless, the three ships were a welcome sight. One of them was their way home.

They rode down the dune, the horses’ hooves slinging up gouts of loose sand. Whistles and shouts from the shore showed they’d been spotted. Ox-drawn carts stood on the beach near several mounds of goods, no doubt ill-gotten. Sailors in baggy pants and stocking caps prowled the scene with pikes on their shoulders. The thieves and sailors watched the newcomers with cold calculation.

Tol skirted the crew busy with the ox carts. With such a full cargo on their hands, they’d be less interested in passengers. Further down the beach four longboats were drawn up on the sand, their crews waiting idly for more purloined goods to come their way. Tol led his people to them.