Icy water splashed on Errol’s face. He spluttered and gasped, swallowing a mouthful that went down wrong. Rough laughter greeted his panic. He rolled over to his side to shield his face from the assault and coughed up blood.

“Got some mighty powerful luck, shark boy.”

Errol groaned and tried to lift up to see his tormentor. His burnt, broken leg gave way and sent him sprawling in the hard mud, facedown. He spat out dirt and lifted his head, moving more slowly this time. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Two groups of scouts had returned. That left four others still roaming around the Bridge. A burly, dark-skinned man with a broken nose—twisted and flattened multiple times, Errol guessed—shoved him with his boot. “The light mage did this?”

“Sure wasn’t Sarge.” He rested on his forearm, gritting his teeth against the assault of pain in his hip and knee, fingernails digging into the ground as he fought to keep from collapse, and attempted a smile.

“Don’t act like you knew him,” the scout said, but he scratched his chin and stepped back before he continued. “He untied you, huh? Maybe you did know him.”

“Sure you can you trust me? I could have simply cut the bonds after the fight,” Errol said, fishing for information.

Broken Nose man shook his head. “Magic ward. Only Sarge could undo it. If you want us to keep you alive, better start talking.”

Errol lowered himself back into the dirt, arms shaking with exhaustion. He finally croaked out one word. “Oskar.”

The scouts exchanged glances, eyes narrowed. “A friend of yours?”

“Could say that,” Errol said, pausing to lick his lips. Despite the water they’d poured on him, he suddenly felt parched. “He put me in the group. Backup. Security in case you couldn’t stop them.”

One of the scouts spat. “A Mako as an insurance policy? I think not.”

Errol sent a lance through the scout’s shoulder, careful to keep it weak enough and far enough from the heart not to kill him. The man quivered and collapsed, his eyes rolling back up into his head. He’d be out for a while. A twinge of regret at his callousness almost tripped up his words, but Errol steeled himself and injected disdain into his voice. “I only need one of you alive to help me return. Next bolt will be lethal.”

"We'll get you out, sir." Broken Nose saluted. The other scouts fingered their weapons, but they nodded.

"Mission is unchanged," Errol grated, desperate for more water on his dry throat. "We’ll keep moving forward. The others can't be too far ahead, although this fight slowed them down and announced our presence. Now the element of surprise is dead and buried. No use hiding anymore. Call in the others and march."

Broken Nose balked. "You sure you can move? We won't be able to carry you if we have to climb."

"No medic?" Errol asked.

He laughed bitterly and turned to one of the other scouts nearby. "Hey, Percy, we got a miracle worker since you last checked?"

A lean, pale man with curly black hair shook his head at Broken Nose. "Can't recall one, Merv. Kenyon was promising, but he's one of those crispy ash piles over there, so he ain't likely to do you much good these days."

Merv shrugged at Errol. "Out of luck."

"Used it all up staying alive," Errol agreed.

"Fair trade," Percy said, flashing a smile. He and Merv shared a quick chuckle—Errol got the sense that dodging death was an old habit for those two.

They made camp, scrounging through the packs until they found provisions. Another pair of scouts returned soon, one of them dragging a large carrion bird he'd shot with his crossbow. Some of the other had bandages and basic salves. Errol filled his belly while they stabilized the worst of his various injuries. The look they gave him when they treated his mangled leg killed his appetite, however.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Crippled. No way around it. On the cusp of qualifying for Eel training. . . . He shook his head, refusing to let bitterness poison him. Survive. Finish the mission. That was his goal now. Only then would he worry about placements. They would probably turn him away, but no sense culling himself from the rank of applicants. Force them to make an exception—show them why he was worth the investment.

Errol spoke up. "Time's wasting. Prepare to leave as soon as the last team returns."

"Don't take orders from a civilian," Merv muttered. He polished a long blade. "And don't even think about frying any more people. We need rest if we're going to haul you with us, shark bait. Final word."

Errol relented. Even a true Eel had no military standing, just an aura of danger. He had made his point. They weren't going to kill him, so that was a good start. Between the food and the herbal painkillers, he almost felt fit enough to face the truth of his diagnosis.

After eating, Errol asked for his vital ring back. Merv dug around in the Sergeant's pack and found the magical jewelry.

“This? You can get a better bauble in the gambling dens dockside.”

Errol snatched at the ring. Merv laughed and handed it over with only a brief glimpse of greed. “It’s a family heirloom,” Errol said to cover his panicked response. The lie sounded lame to his ears, but if the others noticed, they didn’t say anything.

Errol took a deep breath. He gripped the ring in one hands, the other closed over his fist to keep his fingers from shaking. What if the damage to his leg could be reversed? He slipped the ring on his finger and twisted, activating the remote scan.

His health showed dangerously low. Another hit and he would have died out there on the battlefield. He probably deserved it. The thought struck him that eating should have restored his vitality, at least a little; perhaps he’d truly been halfway through death’s door.

Vitals Affiliation Name: Errol Diplomacy: 13 Shark Clan Level: 2 Strength: 7 Mako (Tier V) Class: Hunter Acuity: 12 Ray Division Health: 2 / 52 Inner Fortitude: 12 Reputation: rank & file Lifeforce: 15 / 75     Abilities Items Favor Sensor field: Adept, Tier V

Voltage lance: Adept, Tier III

Belt Knife

Thieves' Kit

Silver Amulet of Clarity

Bridge Spirit

unknown entity

Two! How is that possible? Errol licked his lips and swallowed twice, trying to wet his parched mouth. What was I before, if I’m only up to two now? Did I hit zero health and still live, or did I just hover at one for a while, teetering on the brink of death?

Despite the pain, Errol grinned at the results. Mako, tier five. Voltage stream: Adept, Tier III. He was close to challenging for the next level, and with the increased power of his lance, he might be able to make Eel. The burns he’d suffered in the fight were terrible, but he'd take that trade any day. The useless leg was another matter, however. The warning messages indicated that he wasn’t likely to walk again, at least not without reaching Bullshark. I need to rank up. I’ll heal if I can push through to the next level.

The increase in his inner fortitude surprised him at first; it seemed like too big a jump for just surviving through a hailstorm, but as he thought back over their trip, he picked out times he had willed the crew onward or fought for survival. Maybe he was growing up, after all.

This time, at the end of the readout, Errol noticed a short note from Captain Grimhilt. He didn’t know they could send letters through the testing stone, even if his ring was linked. What other secrets had the Shark Clan kept from recruits?

> I’ve uncovered some disturbing details about a former adversary who may have sent his soldiers to stop the team. If you’re still alive, be on guard. It’s going to get rough over there.

Errol bit back laughter. The warning was a little late. He wondered, though, if there was a way to reverse the flow of information. They hadn’t told him about any methods, so he assumed that sending notes was a one-way trip. Maybe if he coordinated with the others, however, they could encode a message to send through their vital stats—but how they would communicate in code without first providing a key was beyond him. Maybe someone else from their group had a history in cryptography.

A scout hawked up mucus and spat, grinning in satisfaction.

Errol sighed. He missed his own team. He only hoped that they would give him time to explain the situation once he found them. If Taras told them about that poor boy he’d murdered . . . he squeezed his eyes shut to try to block out the image of the shock lance slamming into the boy’s chest. None of this should have happened.

“Can’t believe we’re taking you with, but can’t risk leaving you,” Merv grunted, crouching down next to Errol. “Time to move out.”

They formed a travois for him. Merv was the biggest and sturdiest, so he dragged Errol. They soon reached the end of the broken roadway and rigged a series of pulleys to lower their packs to platforms far below. They hooked up Errol and ferried him down last. The process took all day, platform to platform, just to reach the ground, but Errol didn’t care. He was just happy to get away from the worst of the storm. Away from the charred battlefield.

Away from the memories.