In spite of the slight dull ache in my back and the sluggish unsteadiness of my form, it’s still a blessed relief to be back in the saddle right now. Certainly my horse seems to be taking it easy on me, if there’s any sense of resentment in her after I put her through hell yesterday she’s hiding it well, or perhaps she’s plotting something for further down the road. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.

Krakka’s stayed stubbornly by my side this whole way too, and while he’s remained stoic the whole time I know he’s still pretty concerned about me, especially now I’m riding again. If it were up to him I’d still be in the back of the cart, but we need that space now for our new prisoner.

Tarrow, that’s his name apparently, is unhappy. Okay, that’s probably an understatement. He’s pissed off. He probably expected, after Kesla finished questioning him, that she’d just cut his throat, or maybe use her axe on him again, this time putting the sharp of the blade into his skull. I think he was even counting on it. Orcs are strange, the way they’re so hung up on their honour to the detriment of almost everything else, especially their own personal well-being. Maybe he even hoped she’d cut his bonds and then let him relieve the shame of his capture by giving him his sword back to fight to the death.

Maybe he genuinely expected her to just cut his bonds and let him walk out of the cave. He said as much as we started loading the cart, complaining that she’d said she’d let him go after he answered her questions. She informed him she had every intention of living up to that promise, but not yet. First she wanted to put some real distance between us and the rest of his band before letting him out of her sight.

He lit into her after that, started calling her all kinds of unpleasant things, words I’ve never even heard with my vast vocabulary. Turned the air pretty blue for a while there. Then Art stuffed a rag in his mouth, making sure it wasn’t pushed too deep so it might actually choke him, and tied it in place with a little more rope. Tarrow’s been complaining pretty much non-stop since, but at least we don’t really have to listen to it any more.

I saw the bodies when I finally came down from the cave, Krakka helping me all the way. It’s frustrating, I’m usually a lot more sure-footed, I suspect my elf blood makes it impossible for me to put a foot wrong under normal circumstances, but I had to be guided the whole time I made my descent. The whole way down I was certain I’d turn an ankle, break a leg, maybe take a tumble and break my neck. What an ignoble end to Gael Foxtail that would have been. I was downright fraught when our cleric got me down to where the others had pretty much finished loading the cart again. Then I saw the corpses, still laid out amongst pools and splashes of what looked like black oil in the gloom, and I stopped thinking about myself entirely. It was not a pretty fight.

Kesla and Art did what they could for the fallen before we left, but it still ultimately amounted to just dumping them to one side so they weren’t in the cart’s way. Kesla looked very uncomfortable the whole time, but it was Art who seemed particularly tense and quiet. It took me somewhat by surprise.

We’re not running by any means, but Kesla’s insisted on a brisk pace even so. Thankfully the horses have responded to the general mood well enough, sensing the urgency and putting aside any personal reticence regarding the ever-present precariousness of the scree underfoot to keep trotting. It probably helped that Yeslee went round to each of them before we set off, asking for their very best, I suspect. She certainly does have a way.

Even so, it’s been hard going since we set off. It was still fully dark when we set off, and in deference to the horses and to Wenrich and Krakka, whose own eyes are as useless as Kesla’s in those conditions, we lit some torches so the path was clear. Yeslee went off to scout ahead again, of course, not suffering from any such shortcomings, and Kesla’s had her fancy new eyewear to help her in the lead. Even now, as the sky’s growing bright overhead and everyone can see their hands in front of their faces now, it still feels perilous going like this.

I decided not to take any chances this time. When Kesla helped me mount I asked her to give me my staff, and even though it’s making it harder to guide my horse along working the reins largely with one hand I’m determined I won’t be caught short this time. I have to keep adjusting my grip every once in a while, and I’m not at my most balanced right now, but if something happens I’ll be a lot happier having my best weapon to hand if I need it.

“How are you doing over there?” Krakka asks me, the concern subtle but most definitely there in his face.

“I’m fine.” I try not to growl, mostly succeed. “A little stiff but I’m all right. You don’t have to baby me, I’m not going to fall out of the saddle right here.”

“Gael, I’m not trying to be overbearing. This is important. They could be a lot closer than we think. If they fell on us now you need to be able to react as quickly as the rest of us, and right now I’m not convinced you can.”

Letting go a deep sigh, I casually work my fingers on my mostly free left hand, then whip it up fast, flicking some sparks at him. He leans back fast, and his horse skitters in response, but thankfully it doesn’t throw him. I feel a little bad for a moment, but not much more than that. He did ask for it. “Satisfied?”

I expected a frown, maybe even an admonishment, but Krakka’s wearing a subtle smile instead. I glare back, feeling the tiniest bit betrayed to have fallen for his baiting. “Prick.”

He chuckles, and I can’t help a little smile myself. We ride on in considerably more companionable silence now than we did before.

The sky’s starting to turn red when we reach the next pass, but down here it’s still nearer the gloom of night. Our progress slows right down as we climb, the carthorses in particular a good deal more shy trying to make their way up such a precarious slope without good light. In the end Driver 8 has to stalk up and push the cart himself, which is encouragement enough as they scuttle for level ground in preference to being run over. Kesla calls a halt once we’ve all made it, and like the rest I need a little bit of a rest after all that.

When I jump down from the saddle my legs damn near go out from under me. They feel like they’re made of jelly, and I have to hold onto the saddle for a few moments to make sure I don’t drop on the spot. As it is I’m lucky to hold onto my staff, and after a few moments I wrap both hands tight around it to lean on, staying like that as the weak, watery feeling starts to dissipate and I feel confident enough to try my weight on them again. They’re still rubbery, but I think they’ll serve. I just don’t think I could run.

Even so, Kesla’s already there on my left, lifting my arm around her shoulders, while Art’s taken my right, polite and gently as he simply guides me. I don’t say anything as I allow them to lead me to the side of the track, finding a convenient low boulders to perch on. As I settle I let go a deep sigh and lean a little into my staff again. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Art sighs, jumping up a little bit so he can sit next to me. Keeping a respectful foot’s distance between us, mind. I don’t know why I never really noticed he does that, and I’m a little baffled why I suddenly mind so much.

“That’s it.” Kesla frowns down at me. “You’re goin’ in the cart again, no argument.”

“I’m fine, I’m just tired. How much sleep did I get last night, anyway? Two hours? Three?”

“Gael, you’re still recovering. I should’ve insisted before.” She rummages through her pack. “I ain’t arguing about this. No getting back on that horse until I’m satisfied you won’t fall off an’ break your neck.” She takes a small bundle from her pack, does much of the work of unwrapping the waxed paper herself, then passes it to me. “Now eat this.”

“Kesla, the back of the cart is taken. Unless you think it’s now safe to set our guest free, I’m not bunking up in what little space there is.”

She scowls like she wants to keep arguing, then looks back at the angry half-orc glaring at us from the back of the cart. I don’t think he’s taken his eyes from her the whole time we’ve been moving. “Damn it. You’re right, but I’m still not putting you back on a horse. You reckon you can sit up front, then?”

“I certainly wouldn’t complain about the company.” Wenrich’s joined us now, and while he’s got his usual easy, controlled front up I’m sure I can see a little fresh concern in him now. “You’re certainly more welcome than that young interloper.”

“Yes, I think I can do that.” I finish unwrapping the cured venison and take a bite. “Thank you again.”

“Great.” Kesla loosens up a little, and I finally realise just how tense she must have been since we left, how worked up she’s been. This isn’t even a remotely ideal situation we’ve found ourselves in right now, I know when she questioned the boy that she was hoping she could claw out some kind of fresh advantage for us but instead we’re on the back foot as much as we’ve been since we first set off. Even a little release for her right now is a good thing. “Krakka, can you hitch her horse up to the back of the cart again?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Our cleric shoulders his hammer again with a curt nod before scrambling off.

For a few moments I chew quietly while watching the others ruminate, none of them looking too happy right now. The tension’s still palpable in the air, momentary relief notwithstanding, and it seems to be souring our mood. I start to wonder who’s going to be the first to break the silence, knowing it’s coming.

“So, Master Clearwood …” Kesla finally starts, not looking at him yet, eyes on the ground. “I saw how you reacted up in the cave before, when I was talking to young Tarrow and he mentioned that elf, the one’s hired Min an’ her folk.”

“I did?” he says after a very drawn out moment, too casually to be anything other than feigned. He’s also conspicuously avoiding looking at any of us now. “I don’t recall.”

“And yet, you did. I saw it, clear as day. That description rang a bell with you. Care to elaborate?”

He looks up then, and his eyes go to me first. Perhaps he’s looking for companionship from a fellow Order member, some professional courtesy, a little backup. I’m not going to offer it, I’m as curious as Kesla, and Art too, the way he’s so intently focused on Wenrich now. I’ll admit, I was distracted by packing up my gear during most of the interrogation, and given my tiredness I found it hard to focus anyway, so I only caught fleeting scraps of information, so I’m quite curious now myself. I just look back at him, coolly swallowing before I take another small, measured bite.

Finally he lets go a deep, frustrated sigh, and for the first time a genuine crack in his composure shows through, making it clear that the atmosphere’s weighing on him as heavily as the rest of us. “I can’t be sure, it was quite a broad description. You must admit it could fit any number of elves.”

“Maybe.” Kesla nods, still looking at the ground. “And yet …”

“Yes, of course. Granted. It did ring a bell, of sorts at least. Put a possibility forward, although I’m reluctant to commit to it, because I’d be most surprised if it turned out to be true.” He looks at Kesla at last, as if waiting for a reply, but when none is forthcoming he frowns again. “Hmmm … yes well, I’ll admit, stranger things have happened.”

“Yes, they have.” I mostly mutter it to myself, but he nods along all the same.

“It reminded me of someone I knew when I was young. Well, perhaps not so much knew …” He kicks at some loose rock underfoot, unsure how to continue. Then he looks to me. “Your father knew him. He was something of a mentor of Darion’s when he was coming up through the Academy. But he fell under a cloud. By the time I was there he was already on his way out, and he was becoming something of a cautionary tale amongst many of the freshmen.”

“He was with the Order?”

“Originally. If it is the same man we’re talking about, his name is Erjeon Ashsong. I High Elf, originally from far west on the coast, born and raised in the fortress of Rel. He was one of the most naturally gifted elvish wizards to ever cycle through the Academy, so naturally they wanted to keep him if they could. They convinced him to stay on past graduation, so he pursued his doctorate, then another, and eventually became one of the most awarded members in the faculty.”

It’s starting to strike a chord with me too, although it’s more Wenrich’s description than the actual name that does it, and his talk of a so-called cautionary tale. I’m starting to form my own theory here, and it keeps me from interjecting. I want to see if I’m right first.

“For almost a century he was the best teacher there, hundreds of gifted students reached particular heights under his tutelage, your father among them. He particularly liked Darion, saw something of himself in him, I think, or at least what he once was, in his youth. But then he began to fade from daily life in the Academy, got more caught up in his studies, began to shut himself away for weeks on end. Eventually rumours began to circulate about … unconventional practices, questionable experiments. That perhaps he’d gotten mixed up with something … unnatural.”

“Eldritch powers?” I venture, although it’s really not a surprise. I have heard this story, although it was whispered in corridors between classes and in dormitories late at night. None of the faculty would ever speak of it. The reason I don’t know the name is because they would have banished any mention of it, scrubbed his name from the place entirely. “He became a warlock.”

“Of sorts, or at least that was the consensus. Your father defended him, at least up to a point. I suspect it was simply fondness for the memory of the man he once knew, even Darion couldn’t argue that Ashsong was the same anymore. Somewhere in those last few years at the Academy, we lost him to something dark. Then one night, there was … a disturbance, in his laboratory. No-one else had been in there for months, or so we thought. There was an explosion, it took out the top of an entire tower in the Southwest Quarter. When they went to investigate, Ashsong was gone. They couldn’t tell if he’d been blown up or simply fled, but he was never seen or heard of again. But what they found left over was … very disturbing.”

For several moments none of us speak. By this point Krakka’s joined us again, stood silently on the outside of our little circle, solemn but enraptured by the story all the same.

It’s Art who finally breaks the silence. “What’d they find?”

“Six of the youngest students were there, and they were in pieces. But not from the explosion. They’d been taken apart rather meticulously. Their blood was everywhere, but it wasn’t random splashing or spray. Things were drawn on the floor and walls. Symbols, sigils, some kind of language, but nothing any of the faculty recognised. The remains were gathered up, separated as well as could be done, and interred with respect, but quietly. Their families were told there’d been an unfortunate accident.” Wenrich looks like he’s chewing on something particularly bitter now. “I’m not sure I would have covered it up like that if I had been involved in such a decision. It was an ugly business.”

“That was the Haunted Tower, wasn’t it?” My suspicion has been confirmed entirely now. The tower was never rebuilt, simply sealed off. It’s become quite the Academy legend since, a place only the bravest underclassmen go to prove their mettle, although very few actually make it past the House Wards. Academy faculty don’t mess around when it comes to campus security. Regardless, the Tower has quite the reputation. “I always wondered about that story. It sounded too much like a fanciful bit of ghoulishness to scare the freshmen.”

Wenrich sighs. “I wish that was all it was. Unfortunately what you heard probably wasn’t anywhere near as embellished as you might have preferred to think.”

I can’t help it, the chill that runs up my spine colder than ice. Minerva knows I lost sleep some nights in the dormitories when some of the senior students were being particularly vicious about scaring their juniors with such stories, and that one always particularly got to me. Now I suspect the nightmares I had weren’t far off the mark.

“So this Ashsong guy, he summoned up something unspeakable and you thought it ate him, that’s what it comes down to, right?” Kesla ventures. She’s watching him now, calm and calculating the way she gets. “So you don’t reckon this is him?”

Wenrich looks up at her now, and a complicated expression plays across his face as he shrugs. “I can’t say. The description is … troublingly close. Ashsong was very striking, with a flamboyant air that fits the armour. Not to mention the sword. He had a singular weapon.”

“Magic?”

“Enchanted. Fashioned by one of our finest weaponsmiths and imbued with great power. Not a weapon to be taken lightly. It was also missing from the Tower.”

“I’d say that’s a pretty strong indicator.” Krakka ventures, leaning on the shaft of his hammer. He’s as warily thoughtful as the rest of us as we ruminate on this unsettling possibility.

Finally Kesla lets go a deep sigh, clearly discomfited. “So the consensus is that the one who’s hired Min is this bad news warlock who used to be part of the Silver Order, and he’s set his sights on our cargo. That’s troubling enough, but how the hell did he even know about it in the first place? And what does he even want with it in the first place?”

Wenrich doesn’t answer that one, and we’re all just looking at each other, very uncomfortable with this possibility, whatever it is. Warlocks are complicated. They’re not inherently evil – in most ways they’re just like wizards, harnessing magic to create great and potentially powerful effects, possibly even change the world under the right circumstances, using many of the same principles, practices and mechanics we do – but their power comes from a more alien place, something that’s not readily understood in this world, and this can make them … strange. Some are able to harness it for good, but many inevitably succumb to far darker powers than any man should dabble with, and they become a threat to those around them. If the supposition is correct, then Erjeon Ashsong went in that particularly direction with troubling haste. If he got his hands on what we probably have packed away in that crate … well, I couldn’t begin to speculate how bad that could potentially be.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Okay, so this just got a whole lot more complicated, but at least now we have an idea of what we’re dealing with.” Kesla rubs the back of her neck, looking at the landscape closed in around us, starting to become clear in the rising daylight. “We need to get moving again, quickly. We ain’t put near enough distance between us an’ them yet.”

No-one argues with that math. Wenrich holds my gaze for a few moments, many of the same thoughts I’m having clearly racing through his mind, though likely more acute since he knows who we’re dealing with, now. I’ve ever seen him truly shaken, and it’s very disconcerting to witness now. Finally we break up and return to our mounts.

I can’t say the cart is more comfortable than horseback right now, not at the speed we’re moving at. Kesla’s maintaining a brisk pace still, insistent we keep the horses at a trot as we descend into the next valley, and it’s bouncing us about something terrible back here, Wenrich keeping a good tight grip on his reins as the carthorses barrel down the track. They’ve got gravity assisting them now, and it’s all he can do to keep them from breaking into a full gallop, while I’m just holding on where I’m sat next to him, my staff tucked into the crook of my arm now because I’m certainly not setting it aside anytime soon. The whole thing’s rattling and I can feel it right in my bones, and while I might be a little steadier sat here than in the saddle it certainly doesn’t feel any better.

At least Tarrow’s quieted down, but when I cast a glance back at him I can see he’s still stewing away, getting bounced about good in the back and glaring daggers at whatever meets his eyeline, still unleashing the occasional frustrated grunt in response to the ride. I might be starting to feel a little sorry for him.

It starts to get a little better once we reach level ground again, but this is a tighter passage we’re in now, forcing us to ride single file and squeezing us into slowing down despite Kesla’s insistence. It’s much more of a winding, broken route here, the path twisting and turning for several minutes before suddenly opening out on the right to reveal a deep precipice opening up barely six inches from the edge of the wheel. Wenrich slows the horses down to a crawl when we reach this point, determined to take the greatest care navigating this stretch. It’s all right for him, of course – I’m the one who has to lean over the side of the bench and look down into this, quickly starting to feel sick with vertigo from the yawning drop to jagged rocks a few hundred feet below in near darkness, making sure we have enough clearance as we crawl along. Fighting the urge both to vomit and, for that inexplicable reason I get sometimes in impossibly high places, the subtlest implication I might actually cast myself out into the void anyway, I grip onto the bench like a vice and grit my teeth, muttering constant prayers to Minerva.

At one point there’s barely an inch between us and the wheel grinding off into empty air, and my nerves are screaming at me the whole time, my teeth so clenched it hurts my whole head. I release my left hand’s grip on the bench then and grab hold of my staff, doubling up on my prayers now while I continue to guide Wenrich along, and I’m starting to feel ever so slightly light-headed now. Oh gods, if managed to faint now … well, that would be it, wouldn’t it? There’s no-one who could stop me dropping in time before I fell out of reach, then it’s just a tumble to certain death. At least I probably wouldn’t wake up in time to feel the impact …

Gods … I shake that thought out of my head and take a deep breath, feeling my gorge rise ever so slightly again. Don’t faint, don’t puke, don’t do anything, just keep doing what you are doing right now. And I still can’t quite tear my eyes away from that gaping chasm.

Then it finally starts to close up ahead, but it’s tough keeping this up, I’m so tense now I feel like there’s electricity surging through me even though ever sinew in me is surely growing tight as spring steel, and I’m still sick to my stomach. But the urge to jump, tiny as it might have felt, is finally easing down too, and as the rough, jagged slope begins to climb beside us again I’m finally able to let the breath I feel I’ve been holding for hours out again. Finally the rocks rise up on our right and we become enclosed in a passage again and at least I’m able to sit back. My head’s spinning now.

“Are you all right?” I can kind of hear Wenrich’s voice, but it seems so distant, or perhaps it’s simply muffled, or calling to me from down some deep pipe. Suddenly my gorge is rising again and I shoot my hand out and grab his wrist without even looking and he jumps.

“Stop … stop the cart …”

Wenrich stands right up and pulls the reins hard with a great shout and the horses almost rear as they’re brought to a sudden halt. I don’t even think about it, I simply scrabble to the very edge of the bench and, without even jumping down, just vomit over the side onto the cold, broken stone below. My stomach empties fast but I stay there for a while, leaning forward with my head down, breathing hard.

Finally I feel a hand at my back, soft and gentle, reassuring and respectful. I wave him back, not sure how reassuring that actually is, and spit several times, working hard to get as much of that leftover unpleasantness out as I can. Thankfully my head isn’t spinning any more, and while I expected to feel weak and stiff I’m actually feeling considerably better than I did before. Not great by any stretch, but better.

One last spit and I feel like I’m done, and I’m finally able to sit up again, pulling in a deep breath that, thankfully, doesn’t smell rank. I take a few moments to check myself over, and thankfully I haven’t splashed myself in the process. I almost reach up to drag my sleeve across my mouth but remember myself in the last moment.

“Gael …” Wenrich’s watching me, concern clear on his face. Everyone else has stopped too, obviously, and ahead of us Krakka’s craning back over his shoulder watching me, while I can see Kesla past him, Ulrich turned so she can properly look. Our cleric looks a little stricken, but she’s so cool and calculating. Just the barest hint of the worry I suspect she’s doing well to keep bedded down.

“Ugh … I’m all right. Just …” I’m fishing through my pockets, finally find what I’m after. I pull out one of the soft squares of white linen I’ve used less and less over the years since I left the Academy, so rarely now I sometimes forget I even have them. I shake it out and wipe my lips and chin, barely resisting the urge to shove it right into my mouth and mop it out. “Oh … that’s a little better.” Finally I scrunch it into a ball and stuff it into the pocket again with much less ceremony, already rummaging behind me. “I’m good. We can go.”

I can feel him watching me as I find my canteen and uncap it, bringing it to my lips before I’ve even turned around again. I take a mouthful and swill it thoroughly, then spit it out over the side before taking a proper deep pull. Ooooh, that’s better. I finally turn to Wenrich to find him frowning deep. “Okay, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

He watches me for a few more moments before snapping the reins, and the cart starts grinding along again, Krakka and Kesla spurring their own horses back into a walk. Before long our leader has upped the pace once more and we’re bouncing along again, but it’s not so bad now. I stop hanging onto the bench like grim death now, instead propping my staff up between my knees so I can wrap my hands around it and lean into it, finally starting to get a little more comfortable despite the rough ride. This time when I chance a sidelong glance at Wenrich he’s got a brow cocked and smile on his lips, like he’s amused by the change.

We clear this valley and as we get into the next we keep going down, the ground maintaining a downward slope which is frustratingly inconsistent, making us slow right up again. Here the terrain’s far more broken up than the last, and while there is a path it’s clearly been cut according to what’s available with this topography. The track twists back and forth, sometimes dropping quite aggressively, to the point where Driver 8 has to come up from the back to hang onto the cart to keep it from running away with Wenrich and I and killing the horses in the process. Eventually it tips up again into a steep climb where the track has been criss-crossed in deference to vehicles, but by then we’re starting to feel the urgency of the situation again, our slowed pace starting to weigh on us again.

I’m watching the ridges and cliffs around us constantly now, gripping the staff much tighter, though every now and then I find myself releasing it with my left and tracing nonsense blue lines in the air. I think I’m simply doing this to reassure myself that the magic’s there now, that I’ve got it back now, probably. For when I need it. Not if, not after everything that’s already gone down.

Kesla’s ridden ahead up the track, letting Ulrich take the twisty, winding ascend at near a full gallop, and the destrier’s snorted and shook his head the whole way up. I’m not sure if he was upset in general or more excited to finally have the chance to cut loose again, but I’ll admit that despite herself Kesla looked supremely comfortable in the saddle all the way. This may be a trying time for us, but she’s in her element, and sometimes it feels like a privilege watching her at her best.

Not so much now, though. I’m feeling far too exposed right now, and at this pace it feels like whatever lead we might have carved out before has been thoroughly eroded. For all we know they’re surrounding us right now, but of course in this terrain we’d never know, although Big Man hasn’t said a word this whole time, and whenever I look back he’s simply plodding along. I think I can take that as a note of reassurance, at least up to a point. But the worry’s still gnawing on me all the same, I can’t help it.

“Calm, Gael. Calm yourself. Nothing’s wrong, not right now.”

Wenrich’s still got his eyes on the road ahead when I look to him, but I heard his words all the same. They have a subtle calming effect on me that I suspect was the intention, enough that I stop playing with nonsense scribbles in the air, at least. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to still myself.

I listen until the throb of my pulse becomes more than a simple dull throb in the background of my senses and I can perceive it clear as a rolling thrum on a drumskin, and I will it to slow. It’s been a while since I’ve tried this technique, a long time since I’ve needed to, but I pick it up again smoothly enough. I keep my breathing slow and steady, and it begins to work. When the cart jolts again, particularly savagely, I open my eyes again, leaning out of the tilt to keep my seat, but it’s not s start. Now I’m calm again.

“That’s it.” Wenrich’s smiling at me now. “Good girl.”

“Condescending prick.” I mutter under my breath, but I can’t help smiling. The knowledge is there all the same though, the fact we’re still riding under threat, I just need to continue working on keeping it where it is right now.

“Look, I’ll admit I’m a little nervous myself. If the past day taught me anything, it’s that we’re vulnerable out here. But how different is that to every other day we’ve spent in the wild? That’s the job, Gael, you realised that when you made the choice to come out here. This is what you wanted. You can do this. Try to hold onto that now.”

Taking another deep breath, I raise my staff a couple of inches, gently tap the boards underfoot twice, and let it out again. “I know, I know. It’s just … not usually like this. Usually I’m the one seeking out the trouble, it doesn’t tend to find me instead.” I have to chuckle a little at that. “Wow, that sounds somewhat idiotic now I think about it.”

“Perhaps.” He’s grinning too. “But it’s honest. Your father had moments like this himself, you know. Out on the road. Probably still does, I don’t know. We haven’t worked together for a while. But he’s no more perfect than you are.”

This gives me pause. I’ve had enough time over the years, especially since I followed his lead into the world, to come to a similar conclusion, but it’s still sobering to hear from someone who knows my father infinitely better than me. I ruminate on that for a while, finally giving voice to a particular thought it prompts. “Did he ever fail? I mean … not fail, but …”

He looks at me for a moment, what mirth was left in him gone now. “Darion’s a mortal man, elf or not. He’s no more infallible than the rest of us, as much as he may be above the average. He’s exceptional, but by no means perfect. Even true masters can still make mistakes from time to time, your father included. It’s what you do once it happens that matters.”

Nodding, I thump the step under our feet again with the staff.

“The first time I ever went out on an assignment was with your father. Up until that point the only work I’d done for the Order was administrative, although I hadn’t really been trained for bureaucracy. This was meant to be my moment to prove myself. I was scared out of my mind, of course. It was all so big, so very complicated, as everything always is out here. I stayed close to Darion, and he helped me carry the load, but all the same he encouraged me to take the lead as much as possible. It went off without a hitch in the end, but I was so utterly terrified of failure the whole time I know that I overcompensated.”

“But he wouldn’t have let you make a mistake. He’s your friend, he looked out for you.”

“Yes he did, and I doubt I could have pulled that first job off without him watching over me. I second-guessed myself at every turn, but he encouraged me not to overthink it too much. I don’t doubt that if I’d gone without him I would have paralysed myself into indecision at the first major hurdle. Instead he made me relax enough to found my own rhythm, which was a lesson I took to heart. Every time I’ve come out here since I’ve stuck to that simple lesson.”

I’m thoughtfully quiet as we continue our slow, winding ascent, finally nearing the top of the rise. It’s interesting once I think about it, how I felt so much closer to Wenrich’s example in those early days, whether I’d made the decision to go it alone or not. It took me a while to find my own rhythm on the road. “You’ve come a long way since then, I’d say.”

“Not for lack of trying. There are still times I second-guess myself, but they’ve grown fewer and infinitely further between. Experience breeds confidence, Gael. You did this all the hard way. Like your father, you chose to come out here on your own. You went alone, without a safety net, no support system at all. There are so many in this field who fail in the first year, they burn out or they make one fatal mistake too many, and that’s it. Not you.”

That brings my fateful meeting with the lich to mind, and I feel a chill at the memory. I came so close to a real failure there.

Wenrich much read my expression, because he grips my hand gently for a moment. “He never doubted you’d succeed out here. It scared him to death that you set your heart on it, but he was confident all the same.”

I want to reply but we’ve reached the top at last, and Wenrich has to return his full attention to guiding the horses onto level ground again. We find Kesla waiting for us, Ulrich idly pawing the scree with one hoof, and she’s looking into the distance, a cool, watchful kind of peace to her expression.

He reins the team in once we’re up and I jump down from the bench almost before he’s brought us to a stop, desperate to move around again after all that. I take a few moments to have a good stretch, finally realising I’ve brought my staff down with me, but in the end it helps me to get a little extra out of my limbering. Despite the minimal sleep I caught last night I’m feeling surprisingly fresh, although perhaps it’s simply a delayed effect of what Krakka did to me yesterday, after the incident. I offer up a little thanks to Serena in my head, only in part to cover the bases. I wonder if our cleric might be converting me a little bit, which makes me chuckle a little.

After a moment I realise Kesla’s now stood at my side, seeming completely relaxed. She looks into next valley, and I follow her gaze.

The road ahead rolls down dramatically, taking a series of twists and turns through a similarly broken landscape to the one we just passed through, but this valley’s wider and far more open. Beyond the most immediate stretch of dramatic natural stone structures it all opens out to reveal a wide gap through which the daylight is pouring with a somewhat lazy enthusiasm, a vague haze in the air and wispy roils of white in the distance. It’s strange seeing so much open space after all the tight confines we’ve been travelling through.

“You hear that?” I turn to Kesla as she looks sidelong at me, curious and maybe a little playful.

I start to speak, though I have no idea what to say to that, then I look back into the space before us. Now that I think about it, there’s a low sound under everything, I realise I’ve been picking it up for several minutes but only now consciously registered it. A vague hiss, barely perceptible, but more dominant is a low bass rumble, felt as much as heard, distant but clear all the same. A constant, unbroken note punctuating the scene. “Yes, I do. What do you think it is?”

“Water. A lot of water.” She points out into the open, not at anything specific. “That’s vapour, not smoke. That’s the Hungrenn Gap down there, cut by the Viper before it rolls out of the range. Big angry bastard of a river, and there’s only one way to cross it.” She smiles at me. “That’s just what we need right now.”

“How come?”

“If we can get down there fast, and cross even faster, we could leave these buggers in our dust. Could be it’ll take ‘em too long to follow, give us the lead we need to outrun ‘em. If we’re lucky.”

“Our luck’s not been too great so far, has it?” I manage a little smile of my own, but it’s uncertain.

Kesla shrugs, more thoughtful now as she looks down into the valley. “Just gotta hope it could be on the turn now. I dunno, maybe we can will ourselves some good vibes, might make the difference. It’s worth a shot.”

“You’re right, of course.” I look back at the others, Krakka still in the saddle but Art already stretching his legs again, idly making his way over to us. Our eyes meet for a moment and I look away quickly, not realising until I’ve done it.

“Nice view?” he enquires as he arrives, looking past us. His eyes widen a little. “Oh, yeah, that is. That’s impressive.”

“No time to stop now.” Kesla says after a moment, slapping her hand down on his shoulder with some small force. “We need to get moving.”

“What?” Art blanches a little. “After all that? We been going practically solid since we broke camp, boss. We need a breather.”

“Not yet.” Kesla’s already returned to Ulrich, swinging up into the saddle with her customary ease. “Once we cross I wanna make it through ‘least the next valley along. Then we can take a break.”

Art starts to argue, then stops himself. He looks at me for a moment, then turns away quickly, which takes me somewhat by surprise. He clears his throat and looks out into the great open landscape in front of us, watchful now, and after a few moments he starts to smile. “Oh, yeah. That might work.”

As he turns back he gives me a more furtive look, grinning wide now, then breaks away and scrambles back to his horse. I wonder what he meant by that, but it’s just a mystery to me right now. Kesla’s already spurred Ulrich on, heading down the next track, and within moments Art’s on her heels. I climb back aboard the cart as Wenrich pulls alongside me, and he barely even has to slow the horses before beginning the descent himself.

Despite the similarly rough terrain it’s easier going now, the road constantly leading down so even as we twist and turn, sometimes having to navigate some tight turns and complicated footing, we’ve always got gravity lending a subtle helping hand to our progress. All the time that hissing rumble’s in the air, felt through the ground beneath us, and it grows ever more dominant as we descend, while the air above starts to grow hazier, a subtle moisture leaking into the air now. Despite the cold it’s growing humid now, and as the vapour starts to permeate my robes I have to shift and squirm to stay comfortable.

After what feels like an age we finally come out into the open again after two solid hours of navigating tight passages and one major detour to work around the wreckage of a small landslide, and the sunlight suddenly falls on us without warning. I shade my face with my hand as I peer out into the road ahead and after one last hard turn it runs straight and true down to a sudden … lack is the only word I can really think of to describe it. It’s like the stone suddenly just ends, an almost perfectly straight line cut into the land in front of us. Beyond there’s nothing but hazy air, the source of what has now become a great deep roar that reverberates from the high cliffs around us, no longer simply felt through the ground now but shaking the air itself now. On the far side there’s just a vertical wall of stone, rising high into the sky before breaking off to reveal peaks beyond. A glaring lack of any means to cross, even if there was a route through that impossible barrier on the far side of the empty span.

“Wow.” I barely whisper it, but Wenrich chuckles all the same. I look at him, but he’s concentrating on the road, snapping the reins to urge the horses on as he follows Kesla and Art down this last stretch.

Kesla pulls Ulrich up again when she finally reaches the edge of this impossible gap, and less than a minute later we’ve joined her, Wenrich stopping the cart a good distance short and I’m very grateful. Even though we’re still several strides away from the edge I can already see a long way down into it, and once I’ve stepped down from the cart and willed myself to take maybe five wary steps closer, I’m able to chance a proper look. The gorge is deep.

“Bugger me.” Art breathes as he perches right on the very lip of this impossibly daunting drop, leaning ever so slightly out to peer straight down. “That is a proper bastard of a drop, boss.”

“Ain’t it just.” Kesla’s still mounted on the warhorse, who looks somewhat discomfited being this close to a deadly fall, and I don’t blame him in the slightest.

It must be at least two hundred feet from this ledge to the angry, raging water below. Seen through haphazard gaps in the rolling wisps of vapour, the Viper surges onward with a savagery that puts its sister river, the Icespine, to shame, foaming white water breaking over rocky rapids and tumbling over a dizzying series of waterfalls. The river’s well named, treacherous and lethal as a riled, venomous serpent, and I don’t doubt for a second that falling into that is a guaranteed death sentence. I instantly understand what Kesla was talking about – the Hungrenn Gap is as sure a barrier against pursuit as the strongest fortress wall.

“All right then, I see your point!” I have to raise my voice to hear myself over the monstrous roar of the river, which has now begun a sonic assault on my actual body. I turn to Kesla. “How do we get across it, though?”

As Ulrich paws a impatiently at the ground, Kesla simply smiles, as infuriatingly calm as ever. She doesn’t answer, simply reaches out and casually points to her right. I follow it down the track as it cuts a narrow ledge alongside another sheer cliff on this side of the gaping span, leading for what could be a whole mile down the line of the river before a single dark line stabs across the empty space. It’s a bridge, and from here it looks impossibly precarious. The anxiety I feel being this close to the edge is a tiny thing compared to the oppressive feeling of pure doom I experience looking at that looming prospect.

“Oh no. You have to be fucking kidding.”