He knew that look. It plucked a chord within him, one that had sounded at the Fjeltroll’s terrible words, one that was only beginning to settle into his flesh in the form of fearful knowledge.

Something bad, something very, very bad had happened here.

At their head was a woman of middle years, holding a heavy sword aloft in a two-handed grip. She had brown hair, parted in the center and drawn back on either side, and her face was a study in grim determination.

“Who are you?” She spoke the common tongue, spitting the words in distaste. “What seek you here?”

“Lady.” Uncle Thulu spoke in a soothing voice. “Forgive us. We are travelers, far from home. What is this place?”

“Gerflod,” she said grimly. “It is Gerflod, and I am Sorhild, who was wed to Coenred, Earl of Gerflod. Darklings, dark of skin; you do not come from Staccia, and I do not believe you come lost. What do you want?” Holding the sword aloft, she gritted her teeth. “Did Darkhaven send you?”

“No, lady.” Dani spoke before his uncle could reply. He met Sorhild’s blue-grey gaze, holding it steadily. “It is Darkhaven we seek, but Darkhaven did not send us. We are Yarru, from the place you call the Unknown Desert.”

“Dani!” Uncle Thulu’s protest came too late. The damage, if it were damage, was done.

Sorhild’s eyes widened and something in her expression shifted; hope, painful and tenuous, entered. The sword trembled in her hands. “The Unknown Desert?”

Dani nodded, not trusting his voice.

“‘When the unknown is made known …’” Sorhild quoted the words of Haomane’s Prophecy and gave a choked laugh, covering her face with both careworn hands. Her sword clattered against the marble flagstones as it fell. “Let them enter,” she said, half-stifled. “It is the Galäinridder’s will they serve.”

At her insistence, Dani and Thulu spent the night in Gerflod Keep and learned what had transpired there. They heard the tale of the Galäinridder, who had come upon Gerflod in terror and splendor; of his white robes and his pale horse, of the blazing gem upon his breast, and the horrible warning he bore. War was coming, and Haomane would fall in his wrath upon all who opposed him; those who did were already marked for death. They heard how the Galäinridder, the Bright Paladin, had changed the hearts of the Staccians who beheld him, charging their spirits with defiance.

“Was it Malthus?” Dani whispered to his uncle. “Why didn’t he come for us?”

“Who can say, lad?” Thulu shrugged. “The ways of wizards are deep and strange.”