Running out of that door was a harrowing thing, I was still rattled to my core and Art’s comfort had only calmed me a little, but I swear, when it starts raining rocks it gets so much worse. All we can do is drop into a ball where we are and hope for the best. The whole time I’m convinced I’m about to be crushed to a pulp, and I wonder if I would even feel it if I was. You’d hope you would just die in an instant, wouldn’t you?

It doesn’t happen, though, and after a few moments of silence I feel like I can breathe again. I slowly lower the arms I’ve wrapped over my head and finally open my eyes, hesitant at first, barely a crack while I look out, dreading what I might see. There are several boulders lying around us now, the bigger ones mostly intact but now resting in little impact craters, while others seem to have smashed to pieces when they hit and rained their debris in all directions. The bridge seems to have been liberally pelted too, and it looks to be in a great mess now, those shattered logs that didn’t just miss or bounce off caught in the framework of metal supports and left sticking in all directions. I’d be amazed it was still standing if I didn’t know dwarven architecture is so much stronger than it looks.

“Bloody hell …” I hear Art breath, turn to find him looking similarly surprised by the new view. “That’s just crazy.”

“Yes, it is.” I reach over to retrieve my staff and sword from where I dropped them, then stop just short, settling on one knee now as I take a deep breath and hope. Focusing on my hands, I start to draw a sigil … and it sticks. “Art …” I barely breathe it, so scared to jinx it.

“Holy shit.” I look up as I let the sigil die, and he’s grinning. “That means –”

“The null field’s down.” My attention snaps back to the bridge in time to see Krakka running towards us from it, and Wenrich’s trying his hardest to keep up on his tiny legs. “Wake up! We’ve got company!” He’s pointing now with his free hand, and I follow his gesture to look back down the precarious cliffside track we just traversed.

There’s more bandits moving down it now, a lot more. They’re being cautious about it, but they have enough room on foot that they can still manage reasonably speed, and the first group are close now, already readying their weapons as they realise we’ve noticed them. I can’t say I’m really surprised to see them.

“Ah, yeah.” Art’s stood at my side now, weapons held casually at his sides but ready enough. “That’s a wrinkle.”

“They have us surrounded, then.” Krakka growls as he reaches us. Wenrich hobbles up a few moments later, doubling over a little with hands on knees as he fights to regain his breath. “Kesla and Big Man are holding off the ones on the bridge, but the cart isn’t going anywhere. Not after all that debris got dropped on us. We’re trapped.”

“So what do we do?” I look back to the bridge, but with all that new clutter I can’t see much at all, the ever-present haze of the river’s spray more of a hindrance than ever. I can hear the violence well enough, though, a great cacophony of it reaching us even over the constant hissing roar of the water below, and as I watch I see something thrown out into the chasm from the bridge. Not a body … actually, that’s not really accurate, it just clearly wasn’t a whole one. Driver 8’s not holding back, then …

“Protect the cargo at all costs.” Wenrich manages to get out as he wrestles his breathing back under control. He stretches his back out and even over all the noise I can hear the crack of his spine. I’d shudder if I wasn’t already a little disturbed by what I just witnessed from the bridge. “We can’t let them get it.”

“All right.” Krakka hefts his hammer, gives it a little practice swing. “Master Clearwood and I are protecting the cart, we’ll try to keep them off it. Can you two handle this fresh collection of interlopers?”

“We’ll try our best.” I find myself answering him, and I’m a little surprised once I realise what I’ve just said, but I don’t take it back. “I have my magic back, at least I hope I do. They must have dropped the null field so they could have a bit more control over that bombardment. That might turn out to be a mistake.”

“Perhaps.” Wenrich fiddles with the wand in his hands, something I haven’t seen for quite some time, and I grin seeing it. “I have a few tricks of my own I can play. You’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.” He sees my smile, returns his own.

“Good.” Krakka looks around now. “Just keep your eyes peeled. That hobgoblin I was fighting pulled a disappearing act just before all that shit started dropping on us, gives me the feeling he was just trying to keep me occupied. I don’t like not knowing where he went. He might cause us some problems.”

Art gives his sword an idle flourish. “I’ll handle ‘im, if it comes to it. Good luck.”

“You too.” Our cleric looks at both of us with clear reluctance to leave us. “Don’t take any foolish risks, okay? I’d hate for this place to be where we finish up.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Art grins at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Krakka cocks his brow at that, thoroughly unconvinced. Then he gives Wenrich a gentle clap on the shoulder, just hard enough to press his point before he turns and runs back to the bridge. Wenrich just pauses for a moment as he turns to me. “Be careful.”

“I will.” I’m really not too confident in how convincing the stoic face I try to put on is, but while he frowns he doesn’t say any more, simply sighing before he follows Krakka.

“Shall we?” Art seems much too calm about all of this as he gives his blades a more playful flourish, and if I hadn’t gotten to know him so well I’d think he doesn’t care in the world.

“I’m with Krakka, you know. No foolish risks. This is a bad situation we’re stuck in.”

His smile fades, but he doesn’t quite lose that little spring in his step. “I know. I promise. I’m taking this seriously.”

Frowning, I turn away from him and focus on the approaching force on the track. After a moment’s thought I sheath my new sword again and rummage through my components, quickly finding the crystal again. Screwing it into its notch in the top of my staff, I nudge Art aside and step towards the encroaching threat. I consider them for a moment, particularly the two or three in the lead who’ll be on us within the next minute or so. No time to be nice about this. I know what I need to do, but all the same I don’t feel good about it. At least it won’t be like it was in that mess hall, when they were right in my face and all I had to defend myself was steel and decidedly questionable fighting skills.

After another rummage, I find the sheaf of raw cotton and tear off a little shred, start to rub it between my fingers until the static prickles them. Okay … this is a little more tricky than some of the stuff I do, I have to properly focus for this one. “Art, could you do me a favour and back up a little?”

Through the corner of my eye I see him frown, but he doesn’t argue like I think he wants to. Instead he sets his jaw and backs up a step, then two. When I stay silent he grudgingly steps back two more, and I can start to breathe again. I set my feet, give my shoulders a little roll to loosen them, and raise my staff to aim with both hands towards our advancing enemies. The ones in front slow when they see me readying, and this hesitation starts to roll down the line, but I’m already muttering under my breath, not a word, not even a sound, just a sense, but with form all the same.

Strictly speaking I don’t actually have to cast a sigil to form a spell, but it helps to focus to get the right effect. With a staff, or even just a wand, I don’t have to do that, the instrument in my hand does it for me. It’s not actually magic itself, but I can use it to point at what I want to hit, and having something solid and somewhat pointy in my hand helps me to feel what I’m doing just as surely as drawing the sigil. The crystal screwed into the tip starts to glow, and it's that familiar blue glow I’ve come to know and love, and it’s strong. I can feel the fine, downy hairs on my arms start to prickle as I charge the staff, and the crystal’s glow strengthens, brightens, turns a blazing white, while sparks of static start to crackle from it. I feel every hair on my body crackling now …

The men on the track who see this are understandably intimidated now, and they’ve stopped their advance entirely, a few even starting to push back against those behind to try and get away. Too late.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding and my grasp on the charge in the same moment, and a great arc of dancing, crackling white lightning blasts from the tip of my staff and lances into the worn surface of the ledge two feet in front of the nearest man. He jumps back from it, or at least tries to, ultimately stopped short by the man right behind him who’s fighting his own struggle to withdraw. I’m not even aiming for any of them, but it doesn’t really matter – the whole track explodes on impact, not just in that spot but for at least ten metres beyond, the entire ledge erupting in a cloud of shattering stone and vaporised dust and a jumble of bodies. It’s loud, like I imagine the shot of one of those fancy Tektehran cannons must sound like, and it almost drowns out the cries of shock, terror and, yes, pain that it provokes. Men are tossed into the air or dropped through the sudden empty space created by the shattering of the ledge under their feet them, and while some are torn by debris just as many tumble whole, but all are beyond saving.

Before the bolt even stops pulsing from my staff I’m already stumbling back, my whole body turning to jelly while my head starts to pound, but worse than that is the shame I feel, the abject horror at what I’ve just done. I’ve killed before, always in defence of my life or those of others but still men, women and beasts lost their own lives by my hands, and I’m still not used to it. But this, right now, is so much worse. I’ve never taken so many lives at once, and certainly never in such a brutal, destructive way.

Art catches me before I can fall down, and if I’m still sparking with static he either doesn’t get shocked or he simply ignores the pain, holding me up as I start to swoon. “It’s okay, I gotcha. You’re good.”

“Oh … oh gods … that was … oh …”

“You’re okay, Gael. You did right. It had to be done.”

“I know. I know … I’m just …” I finally manage to fight back the urge to vomit, but inside I’m starting to panic a little again because the numbness is returning along with the fatigue. I was expecting the backlash, that was a seriously heavy spell and I’m still just starting to master it, but it seems to have hit me harder than expected all the same. You don’t get something for nothing, and often what the wizard gives in exchange is a dose of their strength. Suddenly I’m very weak.

“Can you walk it off?”

“Maybe …” I take a deep breath, try to move my hands. I can feel them again now, the numbness already fading, and they’re tingling like crazy, a little bit of smoke rising from them, but they’re not burnt, and neither is the staff. It’s the cotton fibres, they were seared to ash by the spell they helped to charge. Peeling one of my hands free I bring it to my nose and give it a sniff, the stink of burning hair hitting me. “Maybe.”

He helps me straighten up and then lets me go, although I can tell he’s really reluctant about it. I totter for a moment and he’s ready to jump back in, but my balance holds. “Gods … I hated doing that.”

“It was intense, ain’t surprised it hurt to do.”

“No, not that.” I look back down the track now, seeing the damage I inflicted. The ledge is completely destroyed, there’s even a deep gouge cut right into the cliff-face for a good length where I blasted, and the road is just gone for at least twenty metres. More than I intended, in fact. I can see a small crowd gathering at the limit of the track on the far side now, although they’re careful not to get too close given the drop, and they’re not shouting or jeering like I might’ve expected. They look almost cowed. “That was too much, Art. I … can’t believe I did that …”

My voice breaks on the last word and he steps to my side, puts his arm around my shoulders, giving me the softest squeeze. “Hey, hey … don’t do that. You had to. They were coming to take what we’re carrying, what we got hired to protect. And they would’ve killed us for it. It was the right thing to do.”

“No, it was necessary, which doesn’t make it right.”

“Come on.” He gives me a tighter squeeze this time. “They need us. We still got a fight to win. Might be we can get that cart outta here now.” One more squeeze and he lets me go.

“Yes, well I don’t know about –”

With something close to a soundless puff of displaced air, someone appears in the empty space between us and the bridge, less than ten strides away, as if stepping out of mid-air, although I catch a blink of black portal winking away into nothing. I know who it is before I even see them for that. The dragonhalf wizard, decked out in a set of lavender robes that have definitely seen better days, mud-spattered and road-worn with a few pieces of rich leather armour strapped in place, the dark red colour clashing a little with the rest, black hair again bound into braids. The staff in their hands swivels towards us the moment they see us, but the crystal mounted in the tip is cold for now. No spells ready yet.

“Oh yeah,” Art sighs “Them.”

Switching my staff between my hands, I take a few moments to give each a little shake, working the last of the missing feeling back into my fingers, but by and large the backlash has eased now. Either the fatigue has faded too or I’ve just found a second wind, but I think I can cast again. I start working a sigil with my free hand and as it forms my own crystal starts to glow a similar blue again, and as I take the staff up in both hands I feel it start to thrum as I step forward.

Art’s already starting to circle on my right, flanking the wizard. I know what he’s doing already. While they’re busy dealing with whatever I throw at them he’ll try and get in on their blindside and it might be the opening we need to finish this fast. The dragonhalf is clearly thinking the same thing, their bright green, reptilian eyes flicking between us as they consider their situation. They mutter something under their breath, and I feel it, their crystal starting to glow, a subtle orange-red glow that builds quickly, embers soon crackling from it to drift in the air. A fireball. Wow, bringing out the big spells already …

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Art’s already in position just out of range past their shoulder, sword and knife gripped tight and ready for his spring, and I know he’s going to jump the moment anything happens. Then I spy movement out of the corner of my eye, coming from the doorway of the ruined guardhouse, and perhaps that’s the distraction their wizard’s been waiting for, because they let go right then.

I may still be a poor swordsman, but I’m proud enough to acknowledge I have great natural talent for this. I let my force blast fly at the very same moment the fireball’s unleashed, and the two spells meet at the exact even distance between us, exploding on impact. I’m already shouting a warning to Art as I start weaving another blast, and he turns just as he’s about to spring, spotting the threat just in time. The hobgoblin from before, already closing on him with a swing of that big broadsword. He doesn’t even bother trying to parry the blow, he just ducks as it swings loose and throws himself into a roll as his opponent’s momentum makes them follow through on their charge, although he’s already checking his step in order to turn. And I can’t do anything about it, either.

The dragonhalf scowls and fishes in their own components bag, no doubt going for another handful of char and ash to charge another fireball. I don’t even bother finishing my own spell, instead letting it puff out unfinished as I rush forward, hoping I can close the gap between us before they can prepare something. In my head I’m counting down the actions required to successfully cast a fireball, which tells me I don’t have long at all, and the worry gives me speed. I cover the paces between us fast and I’m already winding up my swing when it finally occurs to them what I’m doing, by which time I’m already attacking.

Our staffs meet with a mighty crack that seems louder than it has any right to be with two shafts of wood, but I feel the push of additional pressure from the strike and their hurried block and know it’s as much pent-up power from their intended spell getting knocked loose. Their sharp teeth are bared as they push, but I’m already taking a step back, and I don’t give them a chance to recover before I swing up from below, and they’re not fast enough to react so my staff catches them low in their side. They wheeze and stumble away, winded now, and while they’re off balance I press my advantage, lunging forward and bringing my staff down as hard as I can on their exposed shoulder, forcing them down to one knee. They snarl with as much frustration as pain, eyes flashing dangerously as they force themselves to jump right back up at me.

I duck aside as their angry but unfocused haymaker swings at me, and give my staff a careful flick as I shift to bat their own aside and over, hoping to knock them off balance again as they miss. It doesn’t work so well as I would’ve hoped, or maybe it’s their anger giving them a little focus, but they spin on the balls of their feet instead, and I don’t see their tail coming before it whips up to lash at my knees.

The blow doesn’t knock my legs out of from under me like they surely intend, not quite controlled and forceful enough in their urgency, but it’s still enough to make me stumble. As I fight for balance it’s enough to give them a chance to recover, and the base of their staff whips up to crack into my sternum with considerable force, my arms still swinging wide as I fight to stay upright. I can’t help grunting as the breath’s knocked out of me, and this time I do go down, sprawling flat on my back. I land hard enough to hit my head a little bit and for a moment all I see is a flash of light, then stars are dancing in my vision as I fight to focus. First thing I see is them coming for me.

They’re still a little unsteady on their feet, I’ve clearly hurt them, but while theirs is a somewhat reptilian face I’ve known enough dragonhalves to read their expressions well enough, and this one’s full of murder right now. As they stalk up to me they wind their staff up for a strike, and I can tell this strike isn’t intended to just beat me down, they’re going to be going for my face. Dragonhalves aren’t much tougher than your average half-elf, but they tend to be a lot stronger, and I have no interest in taking this hit.

Not bothering to draw a sigil or even trying to form the word in the brief time I have, I just pull up what I can and throw a force blast right at their own face. It’s done before I can really think about anything really, and I don’t even take into account the fact that there’s a very high chance of things going horribly wrong trying to cast this kind of spell this way. There are spells you can cast with just a thought, you don’t even need to focus, while others can be very complex, even if they don’t take long to cast, and require additional components to achieve the desired effect without simply spluttering out or backfiring badly. Some are simply attempts to force a form of order onto wild, untamed magic, which therefore requires focus and clear intention, which is where the act of drawing the sigil comes in – they’re not actually fixed rules for the completion of the spell, simply aids in conjuring the desired results.

Simply spitting out a spell by instinct is taking a hell of a chance. Wild magic, left to its own devices, can be unbelievably dangerous, and those who attempt to perform magic by simply letting it do what it will are usually playing with fire. That’s why druids don’t tend to last very long, the unlucky ones have a tendency to expire in pretty but very messy immolations, and also why the truly talented and therefore long-lived ones tend to be so dangerous. Wizards don’t do this, we have it drilled into our heads from day one at the Academy that we shouldn’t take chances with magic, that we craft disciplined spells for a reason. This could really hurt me.

There are no fancy fireworks, not like when I craft a spell with my hands or through my staff. In truth I’ve never actually tried this before, nor have I seen someone else successfully pull it off, so I have no idea what it might look like. Do my eyes flare a little? For a second my vision seems to flash brighter, so I wonder if that might be the case, in the same instance I see the dragonhalf’s own eyes widen in surprise as they start to lunge at me so perhaps … just as they’re blasted back, and now I see the spell, as if the after-flash of the force blast hits them in the face and upper torso without the pulse to precede it, odd glittering sparks and waves radiating from the impact as they’re blown back hard. I don’t get a chance to see how far they go or where they land, or even if, gods willing, I might have managed to knock them over the edge into the ravine. The backlash hits me too fast.

This time the pain’s enough that I actually start to black out. Suddenly my skull’s splitting and my senses are screaming and I feel like every inch of me has been burned, but it’s like a wave passing through me, seeming to sweep away almost as soon as it hits. Even so, the fatigue’s back in a big way, and my head’s swimming badly, but at least I’m not all numb this time.

It takes me a long time to find my feet again, and when I do I wobble about badly before properly regaining my balance. Thankfully they knocked me down close to the wall, so I just lean against it while I wait for the dizziness to subside.

Art’s still locked in a particularly fierce one-on-one swordfight with the hobgoblin, who’s a little smaller but clearly stronger, and they’re pretty close in speed and skill. What the hob lacks in Art’s fencing finesse he more than makes up for with a sure, practiced hand with his broadsword, and for every fancy move our prowler tries pulls he’s able to respond with a swift parry or deflection. I can see the hard, sharp concentration clear in Art’s face, but there’s no worry there yet, even if he isn’t smiling like I’ve sometimes seen him do in combat. Thinking about it, it occurs to me that I should give him a hand, indeed I owe him as much after he saved me in the guardhouse.

Except the dragonhalf wizard is starting to get up, sore and stiff and rattled but nowhere near as broken as I would have hoped. I hit them hard, but not too hard, and they’re clearly tough. It’s at this point that I realise I’m not holding my staff, and as I cast about I find it’s lying a good eight or so paces away from me, well out of reach for me to just bend down and pick it up from where I am.

Shit.

All right then … I push away from the wall as gently as I can, hoping it’s not so much that I throw myself face-first onto the ground, and totter for what feels like an eternity while my heart’s in my mouth and my attention is split between the wizard and Art’s current plight. I don’t go down. Satisfied my balance is tolerable, I chance a step forward, and my body obeys, and I don’t topple. I take a deep breath and let it out slow, and try to walk forward all at once this time, instead of having to just concentrate on just one step at a time. This time while I wobble, I manage to hold my balance, but it’s still hairy going and I really have to focus on what I’m doing. It feels like it takes forever and the whole time my attention’s split in three different directions but I can’t help it, I just have to keep moving forward.

Finally I reach the staff and take another breath, this time largely hold it as I grit my teeth and start to bend. My knees seem to be locked all of a sudden so I have to bend at the waist, but I’ve got good enough reach to scoop my staff up again, and thank the gods the crystal’s still in place. Yes, I realise it doesn’t really matter but it’s peace of mind all the same. I straighten up again and as I focus my attention on the dragonhalf now I realise they’re already straightening up themselves, staff in hand, and they look really annoyed.

I let the breath go once I realise I’m still holding it, and consider my options as they simply watch me, clearly thinking too. The bitter truth is right now I’m not all that confident I can cast another spell right now, I’ve been lucky up to this point given that I’ve been recovering as it is, but taking that last chance may well have been the last straw. I lick my lips, reaching into my components bag again and thanking Lady Minerva that I’ve still got feeling in my fingers, and the wizard’s eyes narrow a touch.

They make their own lunge for the satchel at their side and I charge the force blast I’ve been hiding the casting of, and they’re too late realising their mistake while I’m just fighting the urge to breathe a sigh of relief that it works in case it manages to throw me off. Thankfully it takes and I throw the bolt … and it crashes in a wash of blue energy and sparks over what seems like a dome of clear air mere inches short of the target. A shield spell, then. Desperate, but not entirely unexpected, that one can be performed as a reflexive reaction, no need to waste precious seconds thinking first. Pure defensive magic’s easy that way.

For a moment I expect them to throw a response at me and I’m already prepared to cast my own shield, but instead they narrow their eyes and look to Art and the hobgoblin as they continue to batter each other. It looks like Art might finally be getting to better of him, in fact as I watch he whips a slick little feint that draws a response before it’s quite caught, and then he’s able to land a cut with his offhand before it’s quite caught. It’s mostly a miss, but hits enough to wound, and the hob backpedals fast, seeming surprised to find himself suddenly bleeding. Art’s already moving to press the advantage while he has it …

And I realise my own mistake as I turn back to find the dragonhalf has rummaged in another satchel while they had me distracted, but instead of retrieving components this time I see another one of those strange egg-like stones. Shit … I start to cast another blast but it’s too late, they’ve already performed their own spell and this time thrown the baffling object towards the nearest surviving portion of the ledge. It breaks in mid-air and this time the dozen or so newcomers don’t drop out of thin air but instead step through onto the track, although they still seem as disoriented by their new surroundings as those reinforcements back in Hocknar. Which could be enough of a distraction if they weren’t so bloody close to me right now …

Nothing for it, then … I don’t even bother trying to throw a fireball at this bunch, instead I just start running, praying that my legs don’t give out and rewarded to find my knees are finally willing to work again. I charge my force blast all the same but this time I hurl it at the hobgoblin, who’s no longer even facing the right way so I catch him square in the back hard enough he probably doesn’t even know what hits him as he’s hurled forward. Thankfully Art’s spry and wary enough that he dodges aside before he can be knocked down by the body hurtling towards him, dropping into a roll and finding his feet again in time as I reach him.

“Gael, what the –”

“Don’t think, just move!” I snap at him, giving his arm a good yank as I pass and hoping I don’t just pull him down as I keep running. I think I hear him scrabbling after me but it’s too hard to tell over the river noise, and I really haven’t got the time to check right now as I head for the bridge, hoping the new arrivals are enough incentive for him.

Up ahead I see Krakka swinging Bloodmoon with gusto as he defends the grounded cart, and there’s already several bodies strewn about him, and while a few of them are still moving they look woozy and reluctant in their recoveries. As I watch he lays another would-be attacker low with a particularly savage stroke that pulps the side of his skull and he goes down like with limp finality. Wenrich’s stood in the bed of the cart and his arms are outstretched with his wand in one, and I can see a subtle flicker in the air around him. The presence of a magical energy field, encasing him and the cart itself, is confirmed as a frustrated orc swings an ineffectual axe at it and it just bounces off, the whole invisible dome seeming to flare for a split second as it repels the strike. The orc stumbles back just in time for Krakka to smash the hammer hard into his back and he stumbles, dropping to one knee and therefore rendering himself short enough for the cleric to his hammer down on the back of his skull. Even from here I catch the wet shattering sound as it cracks like an egg.

Then the air seems to split apart right in front of me, but it’s not the simple displacement of air of a simple portal spell, or even the strange brief void that those strange stones create. Instead it’s a genuine rending, like reality itself is being torn asunder, and there’s a horrible gaping darkness in the space in front of me, I can feel the subtlest pull from it as I stumble to a halt before I tumble face-first into the great, horrible emptiness. It’s screaming too, a howling presence that I don’t really hear but I can feel it, very much like speaking an incantation but far more oppressive and intrusive in my mind, and I can already feel my lower senses recoiling from the sheer wrongness of it. Then a figure steps through and I would have stopped anyway the moment I saw them …

An elf, pale and tall and beautiful just like any other example of his race, but I take an instant dislike to him all the same, I can’t help it. His hair, pale gold and lustrous, is combed back from his face and flicks out subtly just behind his prominently pointed ears, and his face, fine-boned with sharp cheeks and narrow nose, doesn’t look like it was made to smile. Nor is there any warmth in his pale green eyes, while the pupils seem too large, almost distressingly so, making it hard to look right into them.

His armour’s very rich, one of the most magnificent sets of plate I have ever seen, but while the craftsmanship of the overlapping laminar plates is of the highest quality there’s nothing too ostentatious in their design, they’re ornate but with clear, practical function in mind. The colour is particularly striking, it doesn’t seem like enamel but rather the steel seems to have been imbued with a strong purple sheen that has a subtle iridescence which convinces me it must have been enchanted. There’s certainly a more obvious magical presence to the armoured bracers he wears, the laminar metal plates pulsing with a brilliant blue radiance, and it plays in interesting ways against the naturally reflective qualities of his own pearlescent skin. His rich, dark purple cloak is heavily trimmed with shaggy grey wolf’s fur at his shoulders, and he wears a slender, subtly curving elvish sabre belted low on his hip.

I just stand rooted as he turns his disconcerting eyes on me and then, as though it’s a mere afterthought, lets out a little sigh and clicks his fingers over his shoulder, and that horrible tear in reality seals up with a similarly awful stitching sound. I can’t help shuddering, but in truth I barely register my involuntary response. It’s like I’m lost in those eyes.

“Shit … Gael, what are you –” I hear Art’s voice, but while I know he’s come to a halt at my side it’s as if he’s a thousand miles away.

The elf … no, I know instantly that this is Erjeon Ashsong, I’m as certain of the fact as I could ever possibly be. He cocks his head as he regards me, then his arm whips out, faster than a striking snake, and his fingers seize my throat, tightening quickly and I begin to choke immediately. My senses instantly snap back to me, but of course it’s already too late.

My lungs are on fire in seconds and I start struggling right away, but the grip on my throat is absolute as the bracer strapped to his wrist starts to glow a little brighter and I’m lifted off my feet now. I don’t think he needs to make any effort at all as he raises me high, eyes focused on mine as I squirm and gasp and wriggle and start to batter at his arm, claw at his fingers, achieving absolutely nothing. My vision’s already starting to dim, hazy darkness pressing in to narrow what I can see, and I feel tears pricking my eyes. Too late I realise I’ve dropped my staff, but I don’t know if I could focus enough right now to cast anything even if I could get an incantation out right now.

In the corner of my eye I see Art comes in fast to try and stab at him, obviously hoping to release me, but Ashsong raises his free hand almost casually and simply waves it and Art just stops dead on the spot, instantly frozen in the middle of his lunge. Seeing the blades in his hands is enough to get my mind working again, though, and I remember the sword still sheathed at my side. I might still have enough strength in me for that, and he might be distracted enough by his intense examination.

For one horrible moment it’s like my limbs won’t listen to me anymore, but then I’m able to wrestle some will back into them and I make my move. Except that the moment my hand touches the hilt of my sword the subtlest frown creases Ashsong’s brow and his lips purse a little as he gives a gentle jerk, almost as if he’s just flicking away some irritating little piece of trash from his hand. Except that he’s flinging me bodily into space.

When he lets go there’s blessed relief as I’m able to gasp and gulp in a fresh lungful, but it’s short-lived indeed as I sail through the air and, in the exaggerated slowness of the moment, realise there’s nothing in front of me. The great gaping emptiness of the ravine yawns open before me and there’s nothing I can do to arrest my progress.

Then I flip over at the apex of my arc and as I start to plummet I’m looking up again and for what feels like an age all I can see is empty sky, largely cloudless but there’s a little red in the west now, then a rushing wall of stone begins to whip past on my right. Another one quickly follows on my left and I realise I’m taking the tumble now.

Shit.

Another body’s hurled into the open above me now … no, they’ve hurled themselves into the great empty after me, and I realise it’s Art. The bloody idiot’s just jumped off a cliff after me. In an almost comical moment of casual ridiculousness I realise he’s sheathed his sword and knife again and is now gripping my staff tightly in his outstretched arms, holding it out to me as he falls.

Oh gods, Art, what did you do? I’m dead, this is stupid, you’ve killed yourself too, for what? You can’t save me. But even so, he looks so determined, even though he’s not falling any faster than me, there’s no way he could catch me, I’m too far ahead. But I don’t want to die alone …

Not really thinking about what I’m doing, I reach out, and I concentrate on my staff, and I pull. It’s a simple charm, I don’t even need to prepare anything for it really, I just need focus and intention. I pull, and as he holds onto my staff he’s pulled along with it as it streaks towards me, clearly sensing my intention and just fighting to maintain enough of a grip. My staff whips in and I grasp for it, and just as I think I’ve overthought it Art opens his arms and wraps them around me, and I pull him in, already wrapping my legs around his hips.

“What are you doing? You bloody stupid idiot, what did you do?” I yell it into his ear but he just squeezes me tighter.

“Hold on!” he finally calls out, and even though there’s the rushing roar of the wind around us I can hear it, and he squeezes me tighter still and I reciprocate. Then we must hit the water because the jolt is sudden and immediate and savage and it’s like being slammed down into a solid floor but at the same time it engulfs us, and it’s so cold …