“Do you trust me, Jarkoda?” Errol whispered.

“I don’t have much choice, apparently,” the halfdragon replied, a ghost of a chuckle in his tone.

“No, I suppose not.” Errol channeled his shock lance, dialing back the power but letting it crackle ominously in the air, and slammed his fist into the side of Jarkoda’s scaled skull. The halfdragon staggered back, roared, and swung a clawed fist at Errol, who ducked underneath the blow and snapped off another underpowered lance.

This time Jarkoda stiffened when the bolt hit him. His eyes fluttered for a moment before he dropped to the ground, sprawling in the ashes of the doused campfire.

The scouts cheered, lowering their bows, but Merv still held his sword in a guard as he approached the two. “It’s done? That fast?”

Errol nodded. “Give me a few moments. We were friends, for a time. I’ll see to the burial. Push on toward the tower; the rest are inside already.”

Merv quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. He circled his hands and the scouts lined up in formation behind him, marching toward the command center, while Errol made a show of digging in the dirt with a camp shovel until they passed out of sight.

Errol tracked them via his sensor field to ensure they hadn’t circled back to spy on him. They were scouts, after all. He crouched down next to Jarkoda, slapping him awake. “Hurry. We need to move if we’re going to find the others before Freyman’s scouts do. Ferid, one of the advance scouts, told me he saw a group of spearmen in tattered furs and feathers. Have you encountered any local forces?”

Jarkoda coughed, hacking up a bloodied tooth. He rolled over, groaned, and got to his feet unsteadily. “Next time just let me burn them all. Ugghh. That hurt.”

“Sorry. I tried to take the edge off.”

“Sure you did,” Jarkoda grumbled. He stretched, shouldering his pack. “We ran into the crèche-dwellers, but I’m more concerned about the Shrikes. The others would leave us alone, especially after they’ve seen Rashana in action. I suspect she’s become a local legend.”

“Sounds like you have stories to tell.”

Jarkoda grunted. He pushed a pile of bedrolls at Errol. “You do, too. What’s with all the scouts? When did they show up?”

“Freyman sent us a welcoming committee once he caught wind of our mission. After my level and class change to Eel, I convinced them that I was a double-agent and tagged along.”

“You really did become an Eel?” Jarkoda asked. “How?”

“Pain and suffering,” Errol said with a snort. “Let’s just find the others first. I don’t feel like telling this story twice.”

“Suit yourself,” Jarkoda finally grunted again, apparently still reticent to trust Errol.

They set out, marching further inland—the opposite direction from where Errol had first arrived, since the scouts had already scoured the countryside in that area, working the ground for clues as they walked in increasingly bigger circles. Using the campsite as a central point, they investigated in long arcs across the dirt and stone, looking for clues. After expanding their circles three times, Jarkoda stumbled on a divot of earth that looked like the result of a careless boot. No other prints accompanied the torn-up bit of dirt, but they didn’t have anything else to go on yet.

“Search this way for twenty minutes,” Errol suggested. “If we don’t find anything, we’ll reset and try a new vector. But I’ll wager we’ll turn up something before long.”

Jarkoda swung toward the new path and took off at a trot. He and Errol ran in silence for almost half the allotted time until the halfdragon called his attention to a bit of bone in their path. The polished white stood out against the dull, brown dirt. Jarkoda bent down and recovered a piece of scrimshaw, holding it up so both he and Errol could both see the intricate runes carved into the otherwise smooth surface.

“Telyim must have dropped this. I can’t read the runes, but I don’t think that’s important. She’s giving us a trail to follow.”

“Who’s Telyim?”

“A local seer. She was hostile at first, but if the Shrikes took her, along with Maeda and Rashana, then I believe she’d rather work with us against them.”

Errol nodded slowly, turning over the information as they spoke. “You only mentioned two. You haven’t seen Rhae, Taras, or Gruvrik?”

“Gruvrik was with us. I assume he went with the women.”

“You don’t know what happened with Rhae and Taras?”

Jarkoda’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head. “We haven’t seen them since the storm split us up. I’d hoped you might bring news.”

Errol pocketed the scrimshaw. “We’ll find them. Keep moving; they’ve probably got a few hours on us still.”

They trudged onward through the deepening gloom, past the control tower, and farther into the hills of the main island that served as the anchor for the bulk of the Bridge’s construction in the middle of the bay. The waving fields of grasses gave way to scrub trees and twisted rock formations. The higher they moved into the hills, the more punishing the wind became, cutting through their cloaks and chilling them to the bone as they lost the protective cover of the rows of hills shielding the low-lying grasslands.

As the ground grew rockier, Errol called for them to halt more frequently, bending down to comb through the pebbles with his fingers, looking for tracks or disturbances to point them in the right direction. After a third unfruitful examination, Errol swore and kicked a pile of scree down the hill. He slumped down, sitting heavily on a rock just tall enough to function as a chair, and put his head in his hands.

Jarkoda snorted flames at Errol, making him jump. “You just gonna sit there and rest your sore legs?”

Errol glared at him. Jarkoda never accepted his leadership. “Unless you’ve got a better idea. Admit it. We’re lost.”

Jarkoda chuckled. “Just because you can’t track in this environment doesn’t mean that I’m useless, too. We’ve closed the gap; their trail is recent enough that I can smell them now.”

“Seems like I’ve found fresh energy,” Errol said, flashing a grin at the halfdragon. “Lead on. And Jarkoda?”

Jarkoda turned, a scaled eyebrow raised as he regarded Errol. “Yes, O fearless leader?”

“Good work. Sorry I haven’t appreciated your skills enough.”

Jarkoda nodded in acknowledgement. He took off at a quick lope, his long, powerful strides forcing Errol to break into a run. Human jogging speed wasn’t sufficient to keep up with a halfdragon’s ground-eating canter. Breathing in a rhythm, Errol dipped into his newfound stores of energy, finding that he wasn’t lagging behind as much as he’d expected. Without his recent level, he’d never be able to maintain this run for more than a few minutes.

They ascended a hill, navigated a twisting valley, and crested the final ridge in the range of short, rolling peaks. Below them spread out a warband, clustered around what appeared to be a large watering hole. Roving cougars wandered between the warriors, clad in thick leather cuirass and studded straps that suggested an uneasy domestication.

“Fighting familiars, perhaps?” Jarkoda speculated.

“I don’t want to tangle with them if we can. Do you see the team?”

“Negative. Let’s try to circle over to the hillock to our right. Might give us a better vantage point. You sense any guards?”

Errol quested out with his sensor field but didn’t find anyone between them and the hill that Jarkoda had pointed out a moment earlier. He gave the all-clear and the two slunk from stone to stone, trying to keep to the shadows—not a difficult proposition on the Bridge, where everything hid in a half-haze. Stealth was simply a way of life, not an acquired skill, out here on the Bridge.

They set up on the far hilltop, again scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. This time, the change in perspective afforded them a view of an enormous iron spike driven into the ground in the back of the camp. Four massive chains, bolted to the spike, led to the four prisoners. They slumped on the ground, huddled together for warmth. Rashana wasn’t moving.

“This is going to turn ugly,” Errol hissed. “Can you melt those chains with your fire?”

Jarkoda hummed to himself for a moment before answering. “I’ll need time. That means you’re going to need to distract the fighters. Even for an Eel, that’s a tall order.”

“If it has to be done, then it has to be done,” Errol grunted. He sparked his shock lance in the air between his hands, building up its intensity. “Prepare yourself to move when you see the fireworks. I’m sneaking back around to the front. I’ll launch an attack in about five minutes.”

Jarkoda saluted with a grim, determined look. Errol matched his expression and returned the salute, then sneaked back through the rock piles and underbrush to begin his assault. He tried not to think about how much blood he’d have on his hands after this was over. His team came first.

Errol shook with the effort required to hold back his charged-up attack. He experimented with splitting the shock lance as it flew, striking three of the cougars with a bolt that splintered like a fulminating trident. Even divided three ways, the energy impacted the beasts with enough power to kill them instantly. They spun down to the ground in front of their handlers, burnt tufts of fur standing on end from the electric discharge.

Shouts went up from the crowd of fighters. Errol stepped out from his hiding spot behind a stone and blasted two more bolts in quick succession, taking down the rest of the cougars and impaling a shaman through the chest. He screamed, clutching the bone charms around his neck with a look of betrayal on his face, and collapsed in a gurgling mess of blood.

A handful of hunters drew short horn bows and unleashed a barrage in Errol’s direction. He hurled his body at the ground to avoid the arrows, knocking the wind from his lungs when he hit the stony outcropping.

Ululating war cries rent the skies, announcing the warband’s answering attack. A rush of feet pounded up the slope toward him, accompanied by further suppressing fire from the horn bows. A spear thudded into the dirt a foot away from Errol’s face.

Errol sprinted back the way he’d come, gasping as he tried to force the air back into his chest. He turned on his sensor field, tracking the enemies. They flickered in and out like fireflies, lighting up his senses, scurrying into position so quickly that Errol worried he might not be able to get a targeting lock on them, so he spun and fired blind, trading upfront intensity on the shock lance for the ability to cast in sheer numbers.

Two of the entities in his sensor field winked out, signaling hits. The rest swarmed uphill too erratically for him to get in another attack. He fell back at an angle, hoping to get in range to check on Jarkoda’s progress. The interference from so many strangers made it difficult to zero in on his allies, and he hadn’t memorized their energy signatures in the few days they’d worked together before the storm split them up, but if he could thin the ranks then it should be easier to get a bead on the team.

A soldier launched over a boulder to Errol’s left, bounding toward him with a spear. Two feathers streamed from just below the spearhead, a splash of color in an otherwise drab slice of land that was barren even by the Bridge’s standards. The spearman shrieked in anger, shaking his free hand at Errol in a vulgar taunt, and launched an attack.

Errol ducked under the first thrust, quick-stepping to the side to give himself a better angle of attack to fight back. He drew his belt knife and lunged, hoping to drive up under the man’s ribs before he could get the spear into a defensive guard. Instead, the fighter twirled the spear shaft around and slammed it into Errol’s head, sprawling him across the rocky ground.

Biting back a curse, Errol rolled away from the follow up attack. The spear bit into the side of a brittle rock, splitting it in half. For a second Errol stared at the curved, jagged edges of the spear blade, the raw metal flashing in the distinctive half light of what passed for day on the Bridge; how had they forged such a thing out here, in the wilds?

He shoved a raw, unshaped burst of voltage at the man, bursting open his chest before the spearman got any ideas about more dangerous attacks.

Two women shoved past the man as he died, brandishing clubs. Errol dodged back from the woman on the left and parried with his knife, turning away the second blow from the warrior on his right. She screamed an unintelligible threat, the club over her head, streaks of mud in her hair—the perfect picture of a berserker, Errol mused as he punched her stomach.

She bent in half, eyes wide with surprise at the power in his strike, but managed to swing her club even as she stumbled backward, catching him in the chin.

Errol flipped backward, crashing into the ground and dropping his knife. He jumped away from the other woman’s swing, spat blood, and scrabbled for purchase, scrambling up the loose shale earth to the top of another short hill. Praying he wouldn’t lose a tooth, Errol threw himself to the side, dodging a bone javelin intended for his face, and uprooted a scraggly bush. He spun around in time to knock aside a spiked club, laughing with his newfound strength. Before his last level, he would have died to the first spearman.

How did they ever agree to follow me here? I was so weak!

More fighters streamed over the ridge, armed with an assortment of studded clubs, bone spears, and daggers. A few had metal weapons, but none of it matched. Maybe they don’t forge it on the Bridge, after all; maybe it’s all just scavenged from shipwrecks.

Channeling his shock lance through both arms, Errol built up a multipronged charge that he hoped would chain between his enemies. He roared out a challenge as they poured forward, too many to isolate and snipe one at a time. Power rushed through his hands, splitting the air like a proper thunderclap. Bolts of lightning branched out from each fingertip, searing flesh and cutting holes in the meager bone armor some of the fighters sported. As he’d planned, the lance jumped from target to target, lashing out with the fury of the storm. A dozen fighters convulsed and dropped to the ground, accompanied by the nauseating smell of burning flesh.

A few fighters faltered, falling back before his heavy shock lances. One stalwart attacker in a black fur cloak and a huge cougar skull for a helmet leaped forward, however, wielding a giant axe covered in dried blood like streaks of rust. He dove and rolled underneath the last shock lance, which fizzled as Errol’s power drained, and kicked Errol in the chest, sending him flying down the slope, arms windmilling for balance.

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“Die, stormborn!” the fighter roared in guttural tones, leaping down the hill after Errol with a carved bone upraised in one hand. He swung the totem at Errol, snickering at the pulse of power. “Can’t win a fair fight, eh shaman?”

Errol tried to summon his shock lance, but the fighter was quicker, shaking the length of bone at Errol and disrupting the channel, closing in with each foiled attack. He caught up before Errol reached the bottom of the ravine, turning to ram his shoulder into Errol.

The two crashed into the side of a low cliff wall, dislodging stones in a spray of dust and debris. The fighter slammed into him with studded pauldron, knocking him down to one knee at the side of the stone wall. The huge, bloodstained axe appeared suddenly, just in front of Errol’s face, swinging with startling speed. With a strangled cry, Errol twisted away from the ferocious attack, flinging himself to the ground.

The fighter kicked him in the chest twice, roaring with the fury of battle. Ribs cracked with each heavy blow. Errol screamed in agony.

The fighter drew back for a third strike, but Errol lashed out with a kick and caught the man on the knee, causing him to stumble. Before the Shrike could recover, Errol whirled to his feet and battered the massive axe to the side, lodging the edge in the cliff face. He punched the fighter in the face as fast as he could, not letting him regain his balance, then grabbed him by the fur vest and yanked forward. Errol headbutted the Shrike, knocking the bit of carved bone out of the man’s hands, and summoned a reserve of power to finish the kill.

The shock lance sputtered and almost went out, like a flame burning too low on the wick, but Errol called on the power to survive. He willed it to cover his hands with lightning, sneering at the enemy champion, and howled in victory. With a final surge of power, Errol drove his fist through the fighter’s skull and unleashed the pent-up shock lance, splattering the man’s brains across the cliff face.

Shaking, Errol collapsed against the wall, his fingers scratching the stone as he tried to stay upright. His breath tore from his lungs in ragged gasps. His legs gave out, and his hands failed to find a grip. He slid to the ground, panting, and turned to look back over the battlefield, taking in the carnage.

No more warriors pursued him. Piles of broken, bleeding bodies dotted the hillside. Past the hill, in the Shrike camp, a flurry of activity lit up his sensor field, but in his immediate vicinity, an eerie peace had descended over the corpses. He shuddered, holding back tears. He’d torn them all asunder. This was the price of protecting his friends.

The thought of the rest of the team jolted Errol back to the task at hand. He pushed himself up to his feet and stumbled toward the campsite, leaning on his sensor field for more information. People pinged in and out of the field, scurrying in chaotic disorder, except for a group of four that moved in formation at the edges of his awareness.

Good work, Jarkoda. Errol congratulated him mentally, sprinting toward the ridgeline to loop around and rejoin the group. He stopped to snatch up the belt knife he’d dropped earlier. It wasn’t anything special, but he hated the thought of losing it on the Bridge. A leader should keep hold of his weapons. A column of flames burst up into the sky, washing over Errol with its heat even from a distance, leading him right to the halfdragon like a beacon. He dug in and ran harder, although his stamina had fallen off precipitously. He was made for frying things with lightning, not running hills.

As he reached the top, the battle came into view. Rings of Shrike warriors faced off with the three escapees and their halfdragon rescuer. Jarkoda had slung Rashana’s immobile shell over his shoulder. The Shrike fighters hemmed them in with spears and bone walls.

They have a mage? Errol hadn’t expected this level of sophistication from a group stuck on the Bridge. He’d witnessed firsthand the efficiency of the bone charm, and he recalled seeing a man dressed like a tribal shaman, but he’d gone down early in the fight. Yet there he was, staff in hand, waving the etched-bone around like an imperial attack mage.

Errol scraped the bottom of his reserves, trying to muster up enough power to launch one more attack, but he came up empty. The rebound shot through him, robbing his lungs of air. He staggered, clutching at his heart. They’d have to fend off the shaman without his help—or at least without his shock lances.

The Shrikes noticed him then, standing at the top of the ridge with his hands on his knees, silhouetted against the wan sky. A chorus of curses barked out, followed hard by arrows and javelins. The shaman pointed his staff, eyes lit up with malice. Lighting crackled around its bony projections, exploding outward toward Errol.

Errol dove forward, underneath the deadly barrage. He rolled down the hill, bouncing off mounds of dirt. Scrub brush tore his shirt. He managed to jump to his feet before he smacked into a boulder at the fringe of the Shrike camp, striking a pose that he hoped looked menacing. The Shrikes stepped back, exchanging glances.

He waved his fingers at the shaman, who flinched and covered his face with the bone staff. Before the man could recover his nerve, Errol dashed over to the rest of his team, drawing his recovered knife. He flipped it from an overhand grip to icepick style, then back again after he weighed it in his hands, opting to wield the knife like a short sword. He turned to place his back toward the little group, facing out against Shrike arrayed with hostile intent.

“Got any tricks, fearless leader?” Gruvrik asked, elbowing him in the thigh.

“Yeah. Use you as a meat shield, then blast my way free.”

Gruvrik chuckled. “I like you better than I remember. Sounds like you found a sense of humor after we all split up.”

An enterprising warrior lunged forward, spear in hand. In a blur of speed, Errol deflected the thrust with his knife, snatched the spear, and kicked the legs out from the Shrike, his newly acquired Eel prowess emboldening him to act more decisively than when he was merely a weak Mako. He felt twice as strong now.

“Halt!” the Shrike bone shaman cried, holding up his staff above his head in both hands. He knelt on one knee, blood still leaking from his chest wound. Apparently he was tougher than the other fighters, if he’d survived a direct hit from the shock lance. “Do not fight the stormborn any further. Find out what he wants.”

Maeda quirked an eyebrow at Errol. “Fancy new title.”

Errol sheathed his knife and stepped forward, holding up his empty hands. “Stand down, and we’ll talk.”

The shaman nodded. He motioned for the others to move back, strode into the empty clearing between them, and folded his robes. He crossed his legs and balanced his staff across his knees. “Good. Let’s talk.”

Errol mimicked the shaman’s posture, though he sat down out of reach of the man’s staff just in case of an attack. Out of habit, he scanned the crowd for signs of movement, but his field didn’t detect any motion out on the edges. Now would be his most vulnerable, sitting down in full view of the remaining Shrikes, but their pattern didn’t appear to indicate that they were planning any subterfuge.

“How did you gain the storm spirit’s favor?”

“What?” Errol said, surprise making his brain slow down and his tongue react before he could think of something more clever to say.

“You wield the power of the storm itself, outsider. How have you learned this sacred art?”

Errol crossed his arms and sat up straighter. “I’ve always had a voltage stream.”

“Then why do you fight the servants of the storm? You bear the mark of the storm spirit’s blessing. You and I are allies. We applaud your strength. Now join us.”

“What do I have to gain from this alliance?” Errol asked, buying time. The more he could prompt the shaman to talk, the more likely he could come up with a plan, or regain enough of his energy to chain his shock lance through the most intimidating warriors. His crew should be able to cut their way free after that.

“You’ll be a prince in your true home. We can wipe out the crèche-dwellers if they resist. We’ll rule the world.”

Errol shrugged. “The Bridge isn’t as big as you think. Even as a simple foot soldier back home, I’ve got more prestige and power, not to mention far less work in a place that’s not trying to kill me several times a day. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“How could you wish to be a foot soldier so far from home? You belong here. You know it since you’ve been marked by the storm.”

“What is he talking about?” Jarkoda growled.

Errol turned to look at his team. His shoulders slumped. “I was born here. That’s why I’m able to hear the Bridge—and, most likely, why I have the abilities of an Eel.”

Jarkoda shuffled closer, twin ridges of his scales pulled down in a menacing scowl. “That doesn’t make sense. Shark Clan has plenty of Eels, and they weren’t born here.”

Maeda chuckled softly. “That’s where you’re wrong, dragon boy.”

Errol stood and turned to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Shark Clan brings any likely candidates out here to the edge of the Bridge for training,” Maeda said. “They enter the darkstorm alone If the storm accepts them, then an Eel is born. If not, well, they don’t need a burial when the Bridge consumes them.”

Errol spat. “So that’s why you insisted on joining us, to protect your Eel hatchery?”

“Hardly. Remember when I told you that Shark Clan needs new blood? I’m here to usher in a new era, not to help them continue to build an army so Indara can challenge the empire.”

Errol slipped the silver amulet of clarity from his pack and willed it to activate, focusing on Maeda. An interface popped up, similar to the one he had grown accustomed to seeing with his vital ring.

Vitals Affiliation Name: Maeda Diplomacy: 27 Shark Clan Level: ?? Strength: 23 Great White (Tier VIII) Class: High Inquisitor Acuity: 31 ??? Health: ??? / ?? Inner Fortitude: 37 Reputation: Hidden Lifeforce: ??? / ??? Abilities Items Favor

??

?????

??? ???

???

????

????

??? ????

???

?????

Errol whistled long and low when the information pulled up. Maeda wasn’t a Hammerhead at all. No wonder she had flown up through the ranks. But how had she hidden herself so thoroughly from the rest of them? Surely the instructors had known something of her true power. They must’ve had an inkling of who she was. And did Maeda really posses double digit levels? As he thought back to his many petty interactions with Maeda, Errol buried his head in his hands, groaning.

“I apologize for my insolence, Great One,” Errol said, prostrating himself on the ground.

The shaman started to speak, but a held up hand from Maeda cut off voice. He gasped, a hand to his throat, eyes wide. Spittle dribbled from his lips. His eyes rolled up and he slumped forward, face digging into the dirt.

The Shrikes fell back as soon as their shaman passed out. Now the team stood alone in an empty campsite. The enemy warriors scattered, fleeing into the underbrush and rocky hills as fast as they could.

Maeda walked over and held out a hand to Errol. “Oh, get up, little Eel. You’re one of the few sharks I’ve investigated who still has a positive write up in my review book.”

“Me?” Errol squeaked.

“Yeah, you,” Maeda said, chuckled. She hauled him to standing. “You care. You’re willing to tackle problems bigger than you are, even if you have no idea how you’re going to solve them when you agree to take them on. You’re annoying sometimes, but some resentment is normal if you’ve worked hard your entire life just to watch a newcomer pass you seemingly without trying. Don’t think I didn’t notice your envy.”

“And to think I suspected I could pass your warfare skills in a few more years, if I could become an Eel,” Errol mumbled. “I’m so stupid.”

“No, don’t feel stupid about that; you’re right. My skills lie elsewhere. You’re already a stronger shock trooper than I’ll ever be. You’ve grown up with the latent ability and now you’re blessed by both the Bridge and the storm spirit. In time you could be the most dangerous Eel in the clan.” She stopped and clasped his arms. “But now you have a decision to make. I’m afraid you won’t like the news.”

The team moved closer. Jarkoda snorted flames as he leaned close to Maeda, looming over her. “What do you mean?”

“We’re here to stop the darkstorm. Do you think Errol will retain the storm’s favor if he’s instrumental to ending its reign?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Errol objected. “You said Indara was trying to build an arm of Eels. But she’s the one who commissioned this quest!”

Maeda smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t make me rewrite my review, Eel.”

“Ha! She never told us to destroy the Stormorb,” Jarkoda said, thrusting a scaled fist in the air in victory. “She told us to find and retrieve it since it, but not to touch since its corruption would destroy us. Perhaps she expected us to fear its tainted nature too much to ask any real questions about its origin and intent?”

Maeda nodded once. “Good. Now you’re thinking along the right lines.”

“So why send me?” Errol said. He crossed his arms and took a half step away, hoping to project an air of dignity in the presence of one of the clan’s Great Ones. “If she’s got a deal with the clan, or at least the Eels, then why not send an entire expedition to the Bridge to recover her precious Stormorb?”

“Take it as a compliment,” Maeda suggested, gracing him with a smile. “You’ve spent the last few years studying the Bridge. You’re a dutiful scholar and good at finding things. They’re a strike force, not hunters. They’d never last in the command center, despite all their firepower. If my suspicions are correct, we’ll need your favor with the Bridge itself to survive up there.”

“And I’m expendable,” Errol muttered.

“Yes. That too. So why not show the world how irritating you can be and survive just to spite them all?”

“It’s a several-hour march to the command tower. Wake Rashana. Gather your supplies.”

Maeda dragged the shaman over to Rashana. She slit the man’s arm open and dribbled blood on Rashana, but not enough to bleed him dry. Several moments later, the soulbond stood up, snapped into a defensive position, and scanned her surroundings, ready to fight.

“Errol! You came back for us.”

Errol smiled in greeting. “Good to see you, too, Rashana. But Jarkoda and Maeda did the hard work.”

Jarkoda snorted, shaking his head. “Modesty doesn’t become you, Errol. At least three dozen Shrike warriors chased you over that ridge and you fought them off solo. You’re possibly on par with Taras, now. You should be proud of your progress.”

Errol flinched at Taras’s name, reliving the battle over the poor Bridge child. He waved off Jarkoda’s compliment and turned to Rashana. “Are you stable? I don’t know if Maeda gave you enough blood.”

“I suppose it will have to be enough,” Rashana answered carefully. “I can soak in some of the ambient fragments from the camp. I don’t want to drain this man any further.”

“Do what you have to do. We need to march as quickly as we can. Freyman’s scouts are most likely already in the tower by now. We can’t let them reach the Stormorb before we do. Be on guard; they’re hostile.”

“Take me with you,” a new voice piped up. The seer Jarkoda had mentioned—Telyim, if Errol recalled correctly—stepped forward and bowed to Errol. Covered in cuts and bruises, she looked like the Shrike had used her as target practice, but her eyes held steady as she stared up at him.

Errol offered a hand and pulled her to her feet. Her pulse fluttered unsteadily under his fingers. “You’re injured. Are you sure you can make it to the tower with us? It’ll be a hard march, seer. I won’t carry you if you fall behind.”

“Scan her with the amulet, or give her your ring,” Maeda suggested. “See which tier she is; if she’s close to leveling, we could probably force her to move up. That will heal her wounds and make her a stronger ally for the fight to come.”

Errol offered Telyim his ring. She took it and slid it on her finger. “What does this do?”

“It’s connected to a Testing Stone. It should show your level and abilities.”

She scrunched up her forehead as she regarded the artifact. “What are levels?”

Gruvrik chuckled. “Some newfangled invention among the city folk. We’ve gotten on just fine before they decided to weigh and measure us. Numbers are treacherous little liars, anyway. Best to ignore ‘em.”

Errol lifted up his amulet and scanned her. If he’d known how useful this trinket was, he’d have used it on the team and the scouts every chance he got. Wasted opportunities. He sighed, looking over her vital statistics. She was even lower level than he’d been when he’d volunteered for this Bridge adventure. Why did the others insist on bringing her along?

Vitals Affiliation Name: ?? Diplomacy: 6 Eastern Crèche Level: 1 Strength: 9 Stormwalker (Tier V) Class: Seer Acuity: 9 ?? Health: 7 / 32 Inner Fortitude: 10 Reputation: rank & file Lifeforce: 17 / 51 Abilities Items Favor Prophetic Moment

Siphon Life

Flint knife

Bone charm

Bridge spirit

“She’s tier five in something called a Stormwalker. I don’t think she’s close to leveling.”

Maeda grunted. “Worth a try. Any way to heal her?”

“Yeah. She has a siphon life skill. She and Rashana must get along.”

Rashana elbowed Errol, giving him an arch look.

“What? You can’t deny you both need it to function,” Errol said.

Maeda smacked him again. She held out her hand to Telyim. “Drink, but only a little. You must recover strength. I have the most to give.”

“How come you wouldn’t let Rashana do that?” Gruvrik butted in. He threw Errol an exaggerated wink, looking to stir the pot.

“Telyim doesn’t take memories.”

Errol chuckled. “More secrets?”

“I’m a high inquisitor for Shark Clan. I’m entitled to some secrets—particularly when they may find their way back to Indara if I don’t stay on guard.”

Rashana tilted her head in an eerily human fashion. “You know I’m a separate entity? I’m not Indara, even if we share some memories and a fragment of her personality.”

“Not worth the chance,” Maeda said.

Errol let them continue their mostly-friendly banter while Telyim siphoned off enough life from Maeda to jog unassisted again. They packed up, still keeping a wary eye out for stragglers from the Shrikes, then set off for the tower, chasing after the scouts. Errol only hoped that they weren’t too late.