“I know, I know, it sounds crazy. Then I realized: if a level 25 can sling white hot fire at me from three hundred yards, why shouldn’t I be able to fire an arrow into his gut from twice as far away?”

Barlayne, the Icy Huntress

“When we met, you were nobody. A gutter scum level 8 with a handful of Talents to your name and even fewer coins in your pocket. In a couple of years, I brought you from that shadow of a man up to being a level 17 , an initiate in the Old Ways. Nine levels in two years.”

“I know a friend who’s leveled fifteen times in two months. You’re not so special.” Greg spat.

“That’s impressive, I won’t discount that, but you earned every level you’ve got. A third of her new shiny toys, at least, were handed to her. When we met, there was a twenty level gap between us. In the ensuing years, you’ve closed the gap to seven. You’ve more than doubled your levels in, what, four years? Without me, you’d still be a no-one not even in double digits.”

Rivenstead and Greg squared off again, one man, hair graying, face stubbled, eyes grim, in his fifties; the other younger, in his late twenties, face clean shaven, movements clumsier, heavier, but still filled with grace. They mirrored one another, and a resemblance might be noted in their mannerisms and in their techniques. One was Mikhael Rivenstead, a level 28 , the other was Greg, just Greg, a level 21 , and a one-time apprentice of the former.

“. A useful Talent. Got it at level 18, you know. What’d you get?”

Greg took a fist to the jaw, and, without missing a beat, said: “.”

While they sparred within Greg’s dreams while hundreds of miles apart, the two martial artists and botanical aficionados laughed, shared stories of their travels, and spoke on what was to come.

“You’re all above level 20, which is good. Still, when you’re fighting the highest level man on the continent, probably the world, your odds are rough. A ten level distance between you and your foe means they’ll be highly resistant to your Talents; he has ten levels on your friend Zara, if he’s still level 39. Fifteen on Helena, seventeen on that boy Bim, and, last but not least, eighteen on you. Eighteen levels of difference means you may as well just give up on fighting him hand-to-hand directly; I knew a level 30 guy who could kill anyone fifteen levels lower than him with a single punch. Crazy guy, that one. Anyway, it’s a good example of why you’ll have to be sneaky and circumspect. Element of surprise, get a hold of some good gear, pick the battlefield, that kind of tactical thinking. I’d throw in my lot behind you, but… things are bad here.” He held up a hand for peace, running his other hand through his hair nervously, a rare crack in his confident expression showing a swirling whirlwind of anxieties. “I won’t give you too many details. But suffice to say that… People are dying, and it’s getting worse. I’ve seen the Corruption spread, but not like this. New Classes, new Talents… I’ve killed two Demons in the last month, Greg. I’ve been averaging one every two years for decades, and now I’ve found two in a month. I’ve heard reports…” He trailed off. “Maybe I’ve said too much. But… it’s not just Esultare that’s destabilizing. I think… I think… I’ll explain more when I can. For now, you should wake up. I’ll try to get in contact again in a week.”

Greg stirred awake in a roadside camp. As he rubbed crust from his eyes, Helena smiled at him from beside the fire she was tending. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, looked a bit embarrassed, then opened it again and asked him a question he’d heard a fair amount before. “Why do you fight in your sleep?”