His clothes in tatters but alive, Istaìnn hastened toward the Forest through the Old City streets. The ruins were familiar to him; he played with his friends when he was a kid; it was a forbidden place and an unavoidable magnet for children. But children get bored quickly. The Old City held no real attraction compared to the soccer fields and the Upper City's carousels. His experience with the ruins amounted just to a few hide-and-seek sessions.

The place was as eerie now as it was back then; large avenues, crumbled walls, a testimony of once magnificent buildings, all over an area of twenty miles, a testament of a small population. But that was over a millennium and a half ago. Ohst was numbering well over a million souls now.

As he walked through the streets, he shivered again at the sight of the burnt silhouettes on the ground. In the old times, the legends said humans had wielded magic strong enough to reduce people and cities to ashes. Seeing the destruction they did in their wars, Providence took the magic away from their hands. But those were only legends; he knew that. There was no such thing as magic. On the other hand, science was advancing with long strides and had logical explanations for almost everything.

Luck helped him, a faint noise, tics, and tacs. He jumped behind a wall and hid, surveying the street discreetly through a small crack. Fifty yards away, from behind a corner, a warrior appeared. A two-handed sword on his back, dressed in sea-monster leather armor, long hair knit in thin braids and ornated with beads. Those beads were the ones making the noise.

Damn! That’s an Allamain or a Schiavone, mercenaries from the North. This is bad news…

He was upset that the enemies had thought to guard a place which himself would have watched if he’d been a plotter. After all, the Old City was an exit like any other. He thought for a second to return to the Upper City and try the path the girls took, but he was so tired and hungry that he decided to go forward. The Forest was only a couple of hundred yards away. Sneaking from a ruined building to another, he arrived at the last obstacle: an open square. Giant columns stumps were sprinkled here and there, some yet standing, others down. Pushing himself over a wall, a sharp stone tore a leg of his pants up to his crotch.

Did I do something to you, stone? Why, oh, why?

He was not in a presentable situation anymore, and he had to find a solution before meeting the girls. But his pants became the least of his worries. In the square, either standing on the columns’ stumps, either in between, were at least a dozen mercenaries of both types: archers and swordsmen.

Oh, hell!

Discouraged, he sat down and wanted to weep, but weeping was of no help, so instead, he thought. He looked at the square again and came with a plan. On an oblique path, he could sneak from column to column and go around the guards without been noticed. A deep breath, and on he went. On all fours, but moving fast, he managed to pass all the guards, all that stood now between him and the Forest was a space of twenty yards with almost no cover. He stopped near the last column to take a breath and gather his forces.

Suddenly, a shadow obscured the sky. A muted thunder and a gust of hot wind reached him from nowhere, his skin got goosebumps, an invisible fist struck his stomach. He felt sick, panicked, nauseated, his bowels on the verge to add another shame to his already shamed pants. His ears were drumming.

Pak… pak… pak… pak… pak… pak!

Steps approaching, stopping, and a soft voice speaking.

“I’ve caught you, little moth. Let’s see now, who dares chew on my probabilistic thread?”

Barely breathing, he dared to take a look. Immediately, he hid back behind the column, screaming.

Ten yards away, cutting his path to the Forest, was a monster. He could not find another word. A creature of smoke and shadows, with eyes of fire and a heart like a black pit, pulsating smoke in the rest of the body each second. A living nightmare.

“Did you thought you can beat me with your meager magic?”

Do WHAT? Are you insane? though the spy while the abomination continued:

“Surrender, human. You have no chance. I’ll show you your fates!”

Istaìnn felt like his soul was snatched out from his body. Now he saw the square from above, including himself. His body started to divide, emanating shadows, each trying to do something different. Some spies ran to the forest and were downed by arrows; others were cut down by the two-handed swords. The last one walked directly to the monster and spit in his face before the creature breathed a fireball at him, disintegrating him to ashes.

One second later, he was back in his self and realized he had dark and stark choices. His muscled tensed, Being disintegrated but having the satisfaction to defy the monster seemed the most right choice. At the last moment, he stopped.

Think, Istaìnn. Think! Dying with honor is for suckers! he said to himself, hitting his head with his fist.

In the next seconds, a string of events and thoughts hit all at once.

The mercenaries moved, starting to encircle him. He heard a noise from the top of his column. An archer jumped down, unzipped his pants, and did the number one on the column, just two feet away. The man had been asleep on the stump; that was why Istaìnn didn’t notice him before. The archer reeked of alcohol; he was so drunk that he was oblivious to the spy’s presence.

Istaìnn’s thoughts were spinning like a mad tornado.

He’s lying. The monster is lying. Why did he bother to speak to me? Why didn’t he just killed me? His words showed he thinks I can do… Magic? But magic is a myth. But. is it? What he did to me just now was for sure a spell. That’s an evil wizard, like in the books, for sure. So magic is real, after all. Good grief!… My elven blood. That must be it… I have some hidden magic talent, and he feels it… But he needs me alive, that’s why the mercenaries are encircling me, that illusion was a trick! They’ll torture me until I spit out the girls' location. I cannot let that happen! No, no way I will let that happen!

He tried to think at all the childhood books he had read, at the spells written in them. A word came to his mind, which wasn’t in the books, yet he thought it without thinking like it was an innate reflex.

Protection!

“No way!”

A large sphere of blue energy was now surrounding him and the column. He felt well and sharp.

The monster shouted something, and the movement of the mercenaries accelerated. Nearby, the archer from the column was peeing a neverending torrent, like he was one of those statues on some fountain. A small puddle was approaching the spy’s shoes, but although that was an unpleasant sight, more positive things were considered. The westerner had laid his horse-bow quiver on the ground. The bow inside was already strung, ready to be shot, and just by looking at it, Istainn knew it was an elegant and powerful weapon at the same time. In a blink, he took the bow and an arrow. He still had the shooting glove on.

Should I try to put a spell on the arrow? What to say, what to say?

“Oh, buggers! Nevermind! DIE! JUST DIE!”

Full of hate, he turned toward the monster, aimed at the heart, and released. At ten yards, even with his average training, it was an easy target. The arrow went all in, up to the fletching. The back heart became now a swirling knot of fire and blackness. The monster fell on his knees, trying to pull out the shaft. His cry was an abomination in itself, long, uninterrupted, like he did not need to breathe. The mercenaries fell on the stones, covering their ears, trying to crawl away. Istainn profited the moment and ran toward the Forest as fast as he could. He entered it and pushed onward because the terrifying yell was still there. Suddenly, a massive explosion took him from his feet and threw him into a tree. In the last second, he managed to protect his head with his arms, then lost consciousness.