Booth couldn’t tell which arrow came from which of their party’s archers. But one burrowed into the eye of a sentry. The other drove into the neck.

[Scourge Guard takes 12 damage.]

[Scourge Guard takes 6 damage.]

[Scourge Guard has died.]

The fletching had barely cleared the lift before Arra slammed the lift’s brake into place and descended upon the surviving sentry herself. Especially for a large woman, she moved with exceptional grace and speed. Booth noticed that she strafed around her target and came at him from an off angle, forcing him to turn and expose his back to the rest of his attackers.

Smart. A split second later, it occurred to Booth that he could do things like that, too. Hit things, yes, and let them hit him. But he could be more strategic, too.

Arra handled her greatsword easily. Her falling blade thudded into the meat between her target’s neck and shoulder, nearly cleaving off his arm. Through the gout of blood, the man screamed.

[Scourge Guard takes 17 damage.]

[Scourge Guard has died.]

She’s got to be some kind of barbarian or berserker, Booth decided. The lack of any real armor, the big ass sword, her obvious physical strength—she might not scream in rage or froth at the mouth or whatever, but that had to be her class.

Booth took a beat to be impressed by Arra’s killing blow, but there wasn’t time for more than that. The dying man’s scream ended, but his outcry removed any advantage of surprise. If there was anyone else down the hall in front of them, they’d be coming soon. Booth glanced behind him.

Karon had already stepped to the archway behind them. “It’s a chapel. And empty.”

“Take cover.” Booth barked the order without immediately thinking anyone might not follow it.

Dorri, arrow already in hand and ready to be nocked, glanced up and around but didn’t immediately move.

Scanning the walls. I can’t blame her.

“There are no wall carvings. If there were, the Scourge would have drawn them out already.” Karon extended a hand toward Dorri, just as if he offered to help a lady down from a carriage.

Dorri, being Dorri, of course ignored the gesture. But she moved, and that was the important part. She and Karon swung into the chapel and took up posts beside the door.

Nildeyr shot an annoyed look at Booth—for good reason, Booth guessed, although his dad had always said a good reason didn’t count as an excuse for bad behavior. But Nildeyr eased to the far side of the elevator’s holding wall, obeying Booth’s order despite his obvious hostility. Lora mirrored Nildeyr’s movement.

Arra had already planted herself to one side of the forward archway where the sentries had died. Dark splatters covered her face and arms, and blood footprints tracked the stone floor. Shield and flail in hand, Booth posted up on the other side of the archway.

They waited, but not for long.

Stone slid across stone, far down at the hallway’s end—doors opening. Booth leaned his head against the cold wall behind him and steadied his breathing. Across the section of floor he could see from his vantage point, light spilled briefly brighter across pooling blood and dead men.

Stone slid on stone once more—doors closing. Booth strained to hear footfalls.

What kind of idiot would come running into a clear ambush?

A split second later, the irony of the thought hit him. Booth stifled a self-deprecating sigh and kept listening for footsteps. What he heard instead was a sibilant whisper, like water sizzling on a heated rock.

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Magic.

Booth glanced across at where Arra stood against the wall opposite him, half crouched like a predator ready to spring, sword ready. His gaze met hers.

We don’t know what we’re up against, yet.

Instead of crying out and charging like he wanted to, Booth shook his head. Arra frowned, but she held steady.

Silence fell, but Booth half heard continuing whispers, as meaningless as steam rising from a kettle.

You feel that the imagery of steam and the language used by the unseen incanter should mean something to you, although you can’t immediately discern why.

Wait. What?

Around the corner, a low fog rolled, shimmering in shades of purple and blue. It bumped the toe of Booth’s foot and stopped, eddying into a thicker pool.

And then it reared back and lunged.

[Scourge Incanter casts Fog of Wrath.]

[You rolled a 19 for Wit.]

[You take 6 damage.]

Booth drew back, but fog clung to him, tendrils coiling and plunging beneath his armor. It burned where it touched, and when it had encircled him, it constricted. The air squeezed from Booth’s lungs, and pressure built in his chest, his head, behind his eyes.

Across from Booth, Arra convulsed and choked. The fog swirled around her.

[Arra takes 13 damage.]

Blood dripped from Arra’s eyes, her nose, her mouth. Hot liquid rolled from the corners of Booth’s own eyes.

That’s too much damage. The next hit could kill her.

If it had hit one of the squishier party members, they’d probably have been one-shot. Immediately downed.

Initiative dice rolled. Paralysis gripped Booth, but it wasn’t just the game mechanics. He was once again just a 15-year-old boy with a pitchfork, crouched beside a manure pile and listening to screaming kids. He’d been alone and weak and had no one to help him. The only thing that had saved him or those kids was his goddess, fictitious or not.

Voshell, help me.

The man who stepped out from the archway between Booth and Arra wore dusty boots but a nice cloak. His tunic of sweat-stained white bore the symbol of the Scourge, although embroidered this time instead of crudely painted. Although only one man, he walked with the confidence of an army. A dark fog flitted around him, surrounding him in a writhing buffer of steamy mist, malformed only where it had stretched out to encompass Arra and Booth.

The Scourge Incanter didn’t look at either Booth or Arra. His gaze homed in on the far side of the elevator shaft.

Nildeyr.

Maybe the man didn’t see the others, only Nildeyr. Maybe he intended Nildeyr as the next target before moving on to the others.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe there’s nothing I can do about it, either way.

Certainly Booth couldn’t do anything right then. The turn-based hell of this game’s mechanics prevented him from moving.

On the tactical map, Arra’s square flickered with blue light.

With an agonized roar, Arra flung herself forward, stumbling through the restraining, strangling fog to take a swing at the incanter. Beneath her falling sword, the mist surrounding the man contracted and solidified, turning opaque where her blade impacted it. She twisted, attempting to step around and swing through from another angle. The fog writhed up her legs in fresh streamers, dragging her to a standstill.

Arra’s map marker faded. Red over the Scourge enemy’s square lit up.

No. Shit. Not again already.

Booth strained against the paralysis holding him, but it did no good.

The Scourge reached one hand into a satchel slung across his torso. Again, words like hissing steam skittered from his mouth. He rubbed a fine black powder between his fingers, and the fog around him coalesced into solid form, long and pointed like a pike. It drove toward Arra’s midsection.

Arra shrieked like an enraged beast. Twisting with impressive ferocity, she avoided the fog weapon’s strike. Blood flowed from her eyes and nose and mouth.

But the fog recoiled. Just a little. Just for a moment before rolling back in again.

The enemy’s marker faded, and Booth could breathe again. Blue lit the tactical map.

At the periphery of Booth’s vision, Nildeyr stepped out of hiding and aimed his bow. An arrow blurred past Booth.

[Scourge Incanter takes 7 damage.]

With a thunk and a shudder, the arrow took the Scourge in the leg. The incanter grunted and winced.

His gaze shifted away from Arra. His hand ticked toward Nildeyr. The Fog of Wrath surrounding him began to form a new appendage in that direction.

He’ll die. That scrawny, brave fool will die if you don’t do something before the Scourge gets another turn.

Booth struggled against the invisible force binding him. He couldn’t find his voice and speak the words, but he prayed with silent intensity. Probably that didn’t count, since he wasn’t technically casting a spell. But he had to do something.

Voshell. Earthmother. Please.

The last time Booth had felt so frustratingly helpless had been when he’d stood alone between a much stronger enemy and the group of kids in Traton with nothing but a pitchfork. Before that…

Before that had been the day Toby died.

Booth’s turn didn’t come up yet. But gentle warmth soothed away the painful burning where the fog touched. The harmful magical effect wavered and faded and began to recede.

From the other side of the lift’s back side, pale colored lights flickered, pastel and moon-like compared to Voshell’s sunny gold. Silver flashed in Booth’s vision, and cool pinpricks fell against his skin, offering more blessed relief from the fog’s burning. Through the blood seeping from his nostrils, he smelled rain.

[You have gained the Blessed condition.]

Lora’s marker faded. Finally, Booth’s lit, and the air holding him fast thinned so he could move.

“Voshell, guide my hand,” Booth managed to croak.