In the dark of night, there came a chiming of bells.

Garrain cursed silently. Whether in my dreams or in the waking world, we’re always getting interrupted!

“You going to…oouuh…answer that, ardonis?” asked Nuille, making it abundantly clear that she did not want him to answer that.

“They can wait,” said Garrain. Even if the world’s burning outside, this time they can damn well wait.

“Not this time, fledgling,” said Thiachrin, his voice a splash of cold water across their steaming flesh. The dark shape of the blademaster dangled from a roof branch, peering in through the open window of their housetree. “The scouts have confirmed the location of the demon’s lair. We leave at first light. Be ready.”

Without waiting for a response, Thiachrin dropped noiselessly out of sight.

Garrain looked at Nuille, whose eyes held a mix of exasperation and…terror. He sighed. “There’s still time…”

As dawn approached and Garrain finished donning his armour, he saw that Nuille was likewise dressing for travel. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” said Nuille. “I’m coming with you.”

“Oh no you are not!” said Garrain.

Nuille looked at the floor. “Tuleon is…well you know what happened. There’s nothing keeping me here any longer, and you’ve seen that I can fight.”

“I’m keeping you here!” insisted Garrain. “We’re hunting a demon, not some forest sprite. I’ll not have you putting yourself in mortal peril again.”

Nuille glared at him. “Oh so you’re allowed to throw yourself into danger, but I’m not? Is that how little you think of me? I’m just some fucking nestling to be coddled?”

He eyed her coldly, though it broke his heart to do so. “No. You are my alvesse. And as my alvesse, you will obey me in this.”

“What are you going to do?” she hissed. “Chain me to a rock?”

“If I have to. Do I have to?”

“I— You—” she spluttered, too angry to speak coherently. Finally she sat down on the floor and said, “Fuck!”

Garrain looked her up and down and said, “Again?” Then he had to duck as a bowl came hurtling toward him. It bounced off the wall, and came to rest upside-down at his feet. An image of Utmar’s head flashed into his mind, and he shivered. Again he recalled the dream he’d had about Thiachrin and Nuille, and his resolve hardened. He hated to leave with her still stewing in anger and resentment, but he didn’t see any other way. “You know I’m doing this for your—”

“Spare me your platitudes, arsehole!” she snapped. “I’ll heed your will in this, but don’t expect me to agree with you.”

“Please forgive—”

“Oh no. You don’t get to apologise. And just so you know, you won’t be getting any more of this for a long, long time.” She ran her hands down the ample curves of her body, then gave a wry chuckle. “We’ll see who obeys whom when you get back.”

He groaned inwardly. The last time she’d used that tactic, he’d lasted just a pinch of fivedays before acquiescing to all of her demands.

As he rolled open the front door, she said, “Come back safe, ardonis. Should you fall, I’ll hunt down the demon and kill it myself!”

Garrain saw she was close to tears, and he feared she was being all too serious in her threat. Not that he had any intention of dying. When next they laid eyes on one another, he’d be whole again, and all would be well.

As he set off toward the Circle gates, two large, dark shapes closed in from both sides, and he felt the press of damp muzzles against his hands and legs.

“Not you too,” he said, eyeing the grawmalkin sternly. “You need to stay and look after Nuille.”

They kept trailing after him for a time, until he shouted, “Away with you! Where I’m going, you cannot follow!”

For a while, they stood watching him mournfully. Then they turned and trotted off down the path.

Arriving at the gates with a heavy heart, Garrain cast his eyes over the gathering warband. Considering the enemy they faced, this was not a large force. Still, the band was greater in strength and number than he could have hoped to muster just a few days earlier.

First to greet him were Jevren and Irellian, his fellow keepers. Jevren needed no introduction; he’d been Garrain’s ally almost from the start. Irellion, he knew less well, but Jevren vouched for him. Both were nearly a greatspan older than Garrain. Few keepers survived as long as they had, and of those who did, no others had fought in as many battles as these two.

Also representing the greenhands was Accral, the battle tender, who had saved more lives than anyone dared count. While not a keeper, he could fling a spell with the best of them. Nuille idolised him, and that was enough of an endorsement for Garrain.

The bulk of the warband’s mundane combatants were lightly-armoured rangers, with a small number of wardens providing front-line protection. He knew most of these fighters by reputation, but only Onduon and Caelach were counted among his regular companions. Onduon was perhaps a bit young and inexperienced to be undertaking such a perilous quest. To be fair, the same could be said of Garrain himself. Nevertheless, both of them had held their own against these veterans in the sparring grove of late.

Then there was Thiachrin, who could defeat the rest of them single-handedly while blindfolded and tied to a tree. Compared to him, they were all fledglings.

Rounding out the group was Hascithe and the templars. Their battle prowess was an unknown quantity—Garrain had never seen them fight. At the very least, they were well-equipped.

“Is this all of them?” asked Hascithe after a few more stragglers appeared. At Thiachrin’s gesture of affirmation, he said, “Then let us be away. Our foes hide in the Frostspear Mountains. We shan’t eat or rest until we get there.”

“But that’s three day’s journey, at least!” said Onduon, rubbing his stomach in anticipated hunger.

“Two days and one night,” said Hascithe. “We will see to it that you need neither food nor sleep until our task is complete.”

The Chosen spoke true, for despite the quickness of their pace, Garrain didn’t feel in the least bit tired or hungry after a full day’s travel. There was a subtle magic constantly at work refreshing their bodies. This magic was beyond the skills of any greenhand. He’d never beheld its like before.

“I’m surprised your alvesse isn’t here,” said Jevren that evening as they began their ascent into the foothills. “When last I spoke to her, she seemed intent upon lending her support. We could’ve used another tender, and she’s good for more than just mending torn flesh, as you well know.”

“You encouraged her to do this?” said Garrain angrily.

“Not at all! She just mentioned it in passing.”

Garrain looked at him sharply. “Oh did she now? To me, she said not a word of her intentions until this morn, although it wasn’t entirely unexpected. I forbade her from joining us, of course. She was…very displeased with me.”

“You made the right decision,” said Thiachrin, coming up behind them. “A demon’s lair is no place for that cloying clambag of yours. Without such distractions you can set all of your will upon what needs to be done.”

“Don’t speak of her that way!” snapped Garrain, unable to quell the burst of hot rage at the blademaster’s slight toward his alvesse. Then he took a deep, calming breath. He needed Thiachrin on his side right now, no matter his personal feelings. What mattered was killing the demon and claiming back Ruinath. He just had to keep reminding himself of that fact. “I won’t allow her to come to harm—or allow myself to become distracted.”

“Good,” said Thiachrin. He leaned closer, and said conspiratorially, “This is your shot at glory and redemption. Don’t let anyone else take it from you. Handle yourself well, and I’ll let you get a few strikes in on the demon before I finish it. Only while you’re alive, of course. Should you perish, there’ll be no reason for me to hold back.”

“How…comforting.”

Thiachrin slapped him on the back. “It won’t come to that, fledgling. We’ll slay the monster and return with your precious staff of useless magic.”

A short while after they cleared the treeline, a commotion broke out at the back of the column. Ishne, one of the rangers, had raised his bow to fire at something, but Caelach had grabbed hold of it at the last moment, causing the shot to land harmlessly at their feet.

“Don’t shoot, you dullard!” hissed Caelach. “That is no foe of ours!”

Sure enough, Garrain followed their gaze to a very familiar grawmalkin padding through the tussock behind them.

“Ollagor!?” he cried out incredulously. “What on all the arbor are you doing here?”

The grawmalkin, lacking the power of speech, did not reply, other than to knock his large head against Garrain’s groin affectionately. Garrain half-expected to see Morchi with him, but the grawmalkin’s brother was nowhere in sight.

“I told you not to follow me, you incorrigible beast!” said Garrain, his stern words somewhat dulled by the fact that he threw his arms around the creature.

“Ah…young love,” said Caelach with a grin. “You know, it would be a dire omen if you were to send him away now…”

Grudgingly, Garrain relented. Though he still feared for the beast’s safety, having Ollagor at his side gave him more comfort than he’d care to admit.

On the morning of the third day, they made their way across a snow-covered mountain pass and down into a lush green valley, bursting with the colours of highspring and dotted with crumbling stone ruins.

“Here died the last of the Arborcaede’s legions, after the fall of Ulugmir.” said Hascithe, looking at the ruins, many of which were reduced to little more than piles of rubble. “It is no happenstance that his successor chose this site for her lair. We smell the sallow stench of necrourgy.”

Garrain shivered as he felt Hascithe’s gaze fall upon him, remembering what the Chosen had said to him back in Wengarlen. If Hascithe had spoken out against him to the elders, Garrain would be sealed within the cage trees already, if not mouldering in the burial mounds. But no wardens had come for him in the night. The Chosen must have kept it to himself, for reasons unknown.

Hascithe lead them to a large cave cut into a cliff on one side of the valley. There were smooth steps cut into the rock leading up to the cave, and various other signs of occupation all around the area: fire pits, makeshift buildings, benches, tools, piles of ore, and something that looked much like the smelting furnaces of the forge burrows back in Wengarlen.

Inside the cave, they found what must be a living area, with primitive furniture, tools and containers and a burnt out cookfire.

Most telling of all was the satchel of greenhand trinkets and reagents Onduon found in the corner. Garrain recognised them as his own, stolen from him by the trow demon after their first encounter. Seeing this, he felt a surge of hope that perhaps Ruinath was also hidden away in this cavern. But no; if his focus were near, he would have felt its presence.

Hascithe turned his white mask toward the tunnel at the back of the cavern and said, “The demon slumbers far beneath the mountain. We must make haste and strike at her while she is vulnerable.”

After much agonising, Garrain had decided to bring Ollagor into the lair with him, though it pained him to put the grawmalkin at risk. His only consolation was that the right grawmalkin had showed up. Ollagor was smaller than his brother, and better able to navigate the confines of any tight passages they may encounter.

The tunnel led them down onto a passage above a great rent in the arbor, through which flowed a churning river, filled to the bursting by the highspring melt. Then they turned off into a much narrower tunnel, where the taller members of the warband had to stoop to avoid hitting their heads. There were murmurs of discontent from the rangers behind him, and Garrain mouthed his silent agreement. Already, he longed for the comfort of leaves and sky.

The tunnel ended abruptly in a solid wall. Confusion rippled through the warband as Hascithe stood for a long moment, staring at the unyielding stone. Had he just lead them to a dead end?

Then the Chosen pulled something from his cloak, and Garrain saw a flickering flame in his outstretched hand. He pressed it against the wall. Everyone backed up a few paces—even the templars. A whisper of magic filled the air, and the silent fire grew brighter and brighter, filling the tunnel with its orange glow.

There was a blinding flash, a loud crack, and a wave of heat that nearly knocked him off his feet. Blinking away the lingering spot of brightness in his eyes, Garrain saw that there was a large hole in the wall, glowing with the heat of a forge.

Astonished murmurs rippled down the line. What was this magic that could melt stone in mere moments?

Hascithe turned to face the shaken alvari. “Prepare yourselves—”

The Chosen jerked forward, and off popped his—no, her mask—revealing the delicate features of an alvesse. Milky white eyes stared into his. Garrain glimpsed a gleam of blood-smeared metal protruding from her gaping mouth.

She slowly toppled, landing face down on the ground, a javelin jutting from the back of her skull. On the other side of the breach stood the dwarrow in peculiar metal armour who had thrown the spear.

They stood in stunned silence for a long moment. Then one of the templars uttered a wordless cry and charged into the room beyond, heedless of the molten stone splattered across the floor. Flames licked at his feet, and he made only three steps before he sprawled into a pool of searing red. Fire curled around his armour, and his shrieks echoed throughout the tunnel. The smell of seared flesh assaulted Garrain’s nostrils, and he retched.

“Deusdamned dunderbird,” muttered Thiachrin. The blademaster darted through the burning hole in the wall, hopped over the still-thrashing templar and landed in the midst the waiting dwarrows, claymore whirling. The other templars and some of the rangers followed at his heels, carefully avoiding the burning pools on the floor. One of the rangers jabbed a spear into the throat of the wailing templar, ending his torment.

Garrain eyed the molten floor dubiously for a moment, before plunging through the breach after them. By the time he reached safe ground, the fight was nearly over. Mangled armour pieces and scattered bones littered the floor, but no blood. Their foes had been long dead before they’d donned that armour.

He felt a surge of released magic behind him, and saw that one of the keepers had summoned a skittering swarm of fire beetles to carry the burning stone away. They burrowed between the armour plates of the last remaining dwarrow, bringing it crashing to the floor in moments. It made no sound as it burned from within.

That was the last of them. Garrain hadn’t even got a hit in. But he knew there’d be more of them.

Onduon kicked one of the peculiar eyeless helmets, and out rolled a mouldy skull. “What is this abomination…?”

“A work of necrourgy, obviously,” said Garrain. “You were forewarned about this, were you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” said Garrain. “Be on your guard. This will only get worse.”

“How could this have happened?” said Onduon, pointing to Hascithe’s body. “The Chosen are supposed to be immortal!”

“Clearly, the stories were somewhat exaggerated,” said Irellian. “Every alvar must eventually pass into the Vale of Echoes.”

“And every alvesse too, it seems,” said Jevren. “Did anyone know the Chosen was an alvesse?”

“That’s what concerns you, Jevren?” said Garrain. “There are far more important issues to worry about. What I want to know is: how are we going to find the demon now?”

There was a long silence, broken only when Thiachrin turned to face them. “That won’t be a problem,” he said.

Onduon took a sudden step back from the blademaster. “Grandfather! Your eyes…”

Almost all trace of colour had drained from Thiachrin’s eyes, leaving him with the same pale gaze that Hascithe had hidden behind her mask.

A flurry of startled exclamations and questions followed, none of which the newly-ascended Chosen seemed inclined to answer. Meanwhile, the templars lowered themselves before him, speaking words of supplication.

“On your feet, templars,” said Thiachrin. “The rest of you, pull yourselves together! This is a warband, not a flock of nestlings at play. You’re supposed to be the finest fighters and spellflingers Laskwood has to offer. Act like it! We’re not done yet.” He turned toward the open doorway, and the corridor beyond.

And that was when Garrain heard it: the faint clatter of many feet against stone.

“Form up!” shouted one of the templars. They assumed positions around the doorway: templars and wardens in front, accompanied by Garrain, Ollagor and Thiachrin, then the rangers, with the other greenhands taking the rear.

As the first of the dead came around the bend, Jevren released his spell; a glistening globe that hurtled down the corridor and exploded, coating the charging skeletons’ armour in a spray of sap. They kept moving for several heartbeats, and then fell over, smoke billowing from within the armour. Scorching sap couldn’t burn through metal or stone, but it could seep into cracks in the dead things’ armour and scour away the fragile bones inside.

More dead dwarrows clattered into view, quickly meeting the same fate a moment later as Irellian sent another bolt of sap their way. The third wave of dead got too close for the keepers to safely use that spell. A volley of arrows sunk deep into their armour, but this barely slowed them down.

“Aim for their legs!” shouted Garrain. Several of the archers did just that, and one of the dead came to a lurching stop after a lucky shot shattered its shinbone.

There was a flicker of gleaming steel, and Garrain barely stepped out of the way in time to avoid being impaled by a hurled javelin. A warden behind him wasn’t so lucky, falling back with a spear in his leg. Accral the battle tender stepped forward, his wand already aglow with healing magic.

A moment later, the dead were upon them. Together with Thiachrin, the two templars and a warden, Garrain took the brunt of the initial attack, fending off swords and spears, and hacking at armoured limbs and heads with Trowbane. The tight confines of the doorway allowed just a few of them to hold the clattering legion at bay for a while.

But the dead were relentless, and more devious than he’d have expected of mindless husks. They threw spears and knives and swords, and finally, limbs and heads. They climbed across the walls and hurled themselves down upon the defenders. One of the templars took a sword to the throat, and had to be replaced by a warden, who himself didn’t last long against the barrage of steel.

A short time later, there came a frenzy of motion as the slain templar and warden rose up and set upon the lightly-armoured rangers. At the same moment, Hascithe’s corpse stepped through the breach, holding the bloody spear that had pierced her skull.

Just when Garrain thought things couldn’t get any worse, there came a rumbling from the walls around the chamber, and suddenly there were steel-clad figures charging at them from alcoves in the walls. The alvari front line collapsed as Thiachrin moved to defend the rear.

Garrain’s world became a maelstrom of steel and death. Swing. Parry. Dodge. Thrust. These things were all that mattered. There was no thought; no awareness of the passage of time.

He came back to himself slowly, aware only that the frenzied motion around him had ceased, and an eerie quiet had settled across the room.

Blinking, he took in the silhouettes of Thiachrin and Onduon and Jevren and a solitary templar, whose gleaming silver armour was stained crimson with the blood of his erstwhile comrades.

So few? thought Garrain, still in a daze.

Somewhere among the piles of torn armour and scattered bones lay Caelach and Irellian, and too many others.

Accral stepped through the breach, accompanied by a trio of rangers. It seemed they’d backed away into the relative safety of the tunnel. Garrain couldn’t fault them for that. Losing the battle tender at this point would have been disastrous, and there had been little a healer—even one trained for battle—could do once the fighting grew too intense.

“That went well,” said Ishne, among the returning rangers, as he surveyed the carnage with wide eyes.

Wordlessly, Onduon smashed the hilt of his shortsword into Ishne’s teeth, and the alvar fell back, spitting blood and curses.

Accral stepped up to heal the ranger, murmuring, “There’s a time for levity, Ishne. This is not such a time.”

A moment later, Ollagor padded into the room from the open doorway, holding a steel gauntleted hand between his teeth. Garrain let out a relieved sigh, sweeping his blood-covered arms around the beast. It occurred to him that he would have grieved over the loss of his grawmalkin more than most of these alvari.

No-one else spoke as they stepped out of the red room and into the corridor. What was there to say? They’d just lost three quarters of the warband in the opening battle.

The worst of it was that he hadn’t even seen the necrourgist herself. Had she been hiding amongst the dead? All it would take to end the threat was a single well-aimed arrow, but if she lurked out of sight, they wouldn’t get that chance.

Around the corner, they lost another ranger to an ambush. Two naked skeletons fell upon him from the ceiling, driving spears deep into his chest before Onduon and Thiachrin put an end to them.

After that, they remained ever vigilant; eyes roaming all angles, seeking hidden dangers. They forestalled several more ambushes this way, and made their way down to the second floor.

In the wide hallway at the bottom of the stairs, they were once again met with unrelenting waves of the dead. To his great relief, most of these were unarmed and unarmoured; much weaker than the ones they’d faced at the lair’s entrance. They fell quickly to spells and blades. A half-hearted attack, likely meant only to delay them.

As they advanced through the hallways of the second floor, fending off a third wave of attackers, Garrain caught sight of a column of corpses bearing a stone platform through a set of large iron doors. Atop that platform lay an immense steel-clad form.

He felt a surge of magic boiling toward the surface of his mind; a feeling that had been absent for far too long. It could mean only two things: Ruinath was near, and that armoured giant was the demon who had taken it from him.

Garrain broke into a run, overtaking Thaichrin and cleaving away the withered things that reached for him. Ollagor bounded after him, ripping into the dead with claw and fang. Thiachrin shouted Garrain’s name.

The doors slammed shut.

A moment later, a loud clattering crack sounded at his rear, accompanied by a stabbing pain. Reaching behind him, he plucked out a thin sliver of bone that had driven into his lower back, through his leather vest.

Gone were the grasping corpses at his back, and in their place tiny shards of bone and scraps of dried flesh littered the floor and walls.

Ollagor licked at a bloody wound in his side, where he’d also been punctured by a piece of jagged bone. Another jutted from his haunches. Garrain rushed to pull the shards from him. Fortunately, the grawmalkin’s wounds weren’t so grievous as to endanger his life.

The same could not be said for all of his companions.

Garrain watched as the survivors cursed and plucked bone shards from faces and bodies. Then a choking, gurgling sound drew his gaze to Onduon, who had slumped to the floor, clutching at his throat. Even from this distance, Garrain could tell that the young ranger wouldn’t last much longer without healing. That healing would never come, for Accral lay unmoving beside him, punctured by dozens of bone shards.

“You were always my favourite, Onduon,” said Thiachrin, his white eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You did well. I’m so proud of you.” He raised his claymore.

Jevren reached for Thiachrin’s arm. “Wait, there’s no need to—”

The claymore came down, again and again. Garrain turned away, retching.

He barged into the sturdy slabs of iron, feeling a burst of pain in his shoulder. The doors creaked, but did not budge. There were voices coming from the room beyond, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Allow me,” said Thiachrin, arriving at his side a moment later. “Sarthea’s armpits! I never thought I’d be doing this…” He ran his hand lovingly along the blade of his claymore, still stained with Onduon’s blood. It began to glow with a fierce heat; brighter and brighter, until Garrain had to look away.

There was another loud crack, and he saw that Thiachrin had rent away the steel braces holding the doors closed. They swung aside, revealing a horde of dead dwarrows arrayed before them. The ones at the front were warriors in worn steel, bristling with weapons. The ones further back wore all manner of attire, or lack thereof.

Towering over the dwarrows was the demon, her monstrous head reaching almost to the high ceiling. Metal plates as thick as the doors themselves covered much of her body.

She spoke in the forest tongue; her voice loud and rasping, like a blade across a whetstone. “Hold, alvari! Stand down for a moment and let’s…”

He didn’t hear whatever else she had to say, because in that moment, the dead surged forward. Thiachrin swung his shining claymore, and the armoured forms shattered against it. Garrain moved to assist, but there was really no need. The Chosen created a whirling storm of splintered steel and charred bone out of the bodies of the dead.

The demon’s red eyes widened, and Garrain saw something in them he did not expect to see: fear. Scooping up the small form of a long-haired dwarrow onto her shoulder, she turned and bounded on hands and feet down a steep set of stairs.

With a start, Garrain realised that the dwarrow wasn’t a corpse like the others. She was the scarred necrourgist who had fled Wengarlen. The one Hascithe had warned him about. He’d let her escape, and it had led to this.

“Stand and fight, damn you!” he raged. Garrain would not let them get away this time, not if he had to chase them all the way down into the Underneath.

In moments, Thiachrin had destroyed the entire column arrayed against them, save for one armoured corpse that Garrain had struck down with Trowbane.

Without looking back, he ran down the stairs after the fleeing pair. He didn’t have to go far.

The stairs ended in a bridge over a frothing underground waterfall. Beyond the bridge, the tunnel narrowed—becoming too narrow, in fact, for the demon to fit through.

She and the dwarrow seemed to be having an argument. The demon was trying to nudge the dwarrow through the tunnel, but the dwarrow was standing firm, glaring up at her; clearly having none of it.

The others caught up with him, and the Ishne didn’t hesitate before sending an arrow flying toward their gigantic foe. And then another. Glaring up at him, the demon stepped aside, dodging the first arrow with alarming ease. The second, she snatched out of the air, crushed it between her fingers and threw it aside.

She scooped up the dwarrow once more, setting her gently upon her shoulders, and ran along the rock wall behind the waterfall, claws tearing great gouges into the stone. He could see her dark silhouette behind the frothing torrent, perched on a small ledge below the bridge.

“Well?” said Thiachrin. “What are you waiting for, fledgling?”

Garrain didn’t need to be prompted twice. He took a running leap off the bridge. For a terrifying moment, he thought he was going to fall short of the ledge.

Then his feet touched the slick stone. He landed lightly, and whirled to face the…deus she was big. He’d forgotten how tall she really was; monstrous even compared to other trows. And this armour made her even more imposing.

He gritted his teeth. Now wasn’t the time to give into fear. Now was the time for vengeance!

Garrain leapt at the towering demon, Trowbane singing as it reached for her throat. She would die this—

Great clawed hands snatched him out of the air. With contemptuous ease, she tore Trowbane from his nerveless fingers and flicked the glaive away. In slack-jawed disbelief, he watched as his best hope for revenge clattered against the rocks, rolled once, and disappeared over the edge.

Struggling against the crushing grip, Garrain found himself staring into large red eyes, slitted like those of a grawmalkin, and narrowed in fury. The dwarrow perched on her shoulder held an almost identical expression.

“Oh it’s you!” The demon gave a short, pained laugh; almost a sob. “I couldn’t be less surprised to see you. I’m sorry to have to do this, but…”

She raised her voice to a booming bellow that could be heard clearly against the roaring of the waterfall. “I have your greenhand! Try to attack me and I’ll end him. I’ve no wish to harm any of you, but I will if I have to. If you value your companion’s life, all you have to do is leave. Stop bothering us. I’ll let the greenhand go, even give him back his stupid staff, if that’s what he really wants. Just leave!”

Garrain could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Why wasn’t he dead already? Why was a demon trying to bargain with them? And more importantly, what was this about his staff?

That was when he saw it: the gnarled, but oh so radiant form of Ruinath strapped to her side. Close enough to touch, if he could just get his hands free. He couldn’t let it end this way. Just a little bit more…

His hands closed around the bone dagger at his side. Frantically, he began to saw at the fingers that held him.

She let out a startled yelp, and for the briefest of moments the hands around his midsection loosened slightly.

A moment was all he needed.

Garrain wrenched his arm free, and thrust it forward, quick as the flick of a blade, straining to reach for the arlium at the tip of his staff. He had the spell already prepared in his mind. All it would take was a tiny tap…

His hands closed on empty air.

The dwarrow glared down at him, holding Ruinath just out of reach. She whispered into the demon’s ear, too softly for him to make out her words.

Growling, the demon slung Garrain under her arm and squeezed. His eyes bulged, and his struggles grew feeble. He couldn’t breathe.

Too strong. Far too strong for the likes of him.

Forgive me, Nuille, he thought. I don’t think we’ll be having that greenhand nestling after all.

Garrain thought of his lifemate’s face, not the way he’d left her, filled with anger and fear, but smiling up at him. Then he thought of her other parts; the ones he liked even better than her face. He’d miss all those things while he waited for her to join him in the Vale of Echoes. He hoped she wouldn’t follow through with her threats of vengeance in his name.

There was a flicker of bright light, and then Thiachrin was standing on the ledge before them, clouds of steam billowing off his shining claymore and enveloping him like a cloak.

“Not your finest moment, fledgling,” said the Chosen, looking at Garrain. “A pity, but you had your chance.” Then he turned his gaze upward, and his eyes seemed to blaze with the light of the midday sun. “And as for you, caedeling…here is your answer.”

Without another word, Thiachrin shot forward, his sword a blur of light, wreathed in roiling steam.

Garrain felt himself being wrenched violently to the side. Claws dug into his stomach. Flailing about in the demon’s grip, he saw her body twist in a desperate attempt to—

She wasn’t quite fast enough.

The bright blade swept through steel and flesh and bone. The demon gave a single plaintive wail.

Then they were falling amidst a torrent of churning water; he and his foes, tumbling together into the inky depths.