Facing down her fourth battle of the day, Daphne decided it was time to unleash the full might of her impressive verbal arsenal.

“Get lost, butt-face!” she shrieked.

Mud Man laughed. It was such a stereotypical villain snigger that Daphne cringed. For the first time, she was grateful to be encountering something in her own fictional world that she had not created. Sure, it was still disorienting. And the reminder that she was absolutely not in control of her own story-world made her feel like a fraud and a failure.

But at least she did not have to feel responsible for the existence of prosaically evil creeps like this dude.

This sense of gratitude spiked even further when Mud Man finished his laugh and actually sneered.

“It is you who are lost,” said the sneering Evil Goon Poster Child. “You are wandering blind on a path to oblivion. Thank the Phrases that I have come to show you a better way.”

“Thou dare to mention the Phrases?” Runar’s spluttering gasps seemed equal parts weariness and indignation. He struggled, trying to stand upright, but then fell back against Daphne. “Cretin, guard thy tongue when speaking of the ancient ways!”

“The ancient ways failed because they are insufficient,” Mud Man answered smoothly. “Your folk tripped over their own reverence, Lorist. Too much hemming and hawing and ‘guarding of the tongue.’ The true way lies in unleashing the tongue, and setting its power loose upon your enemies.” His sneer broadened again into an even more boringly villainous grin. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He pulled the coiled smog-chain from his belt. Daphne tensed, then realized he was too far away for the weapon to reach them. She put an arm protectively across Runar’s sagging shoulders, expecting Mud Man to leap down from the boulder and launch an attack. But instead, the Wordmage began swinging the chaos-rope in a wide circle over his head, slower at first, then faster and faster until it was a foul-smelling blur of non-word smog. The chain made a horrible whistling noise as it tore through the stagnant air, assaulting Daphne’s ears. Clearly this weapon was designed to offend as many senses as possible in the most obnoxious manner possible.

Thank every god I did not come up with this, she thought.

“I’ll distract him,” Mark muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Once we’re fighting, get Runar to the prose-shaft.”

“Nay,” Runar wheezed, trying again to stand upright. “Thou cannot face him alone.”

Mark uncoiled the glowing word-chain in a businesslike manner. “I did it before.”

“And kicked his ass,” Daphne added. “Mark can handle this guy, Runar. We’ve got to get you home.”

“Thou must not!” The griffin was almost yelling. “He is not alone! He is calling a Wind!”

Daphne felt an all-too-familiar chill spreading through her stomach and creeping up her spine. Was it just her imagination, or was the whistling of the smog-chain getting louder as Mud Man continued circling it through the air? She concentrated for a moment. Sure enough, the skin-crawling sound was increasing in volume with each swing of the Wordmage’s arm. It was changing in tone too. Now, it was like a chorus of whispers, far away but getting closer by the second.

She swallowed. “Mark —”

“Give me your word-chains!” Without waiting for her response, Mark dug into her satchel and grabbed the two lines she had been carrying from their first battle. “I’ll use them all,” he said, producing the other two lines from his own satchel. “I’ll hit ’em with everything we’ve got. That should buy you enough time.”

Runar was trying to protest, but his strength was gone. All that came from the magnificent beak was a strangled croak.

“This isn’t enough, Mark!” Daphne wasn’t sure what the griffin had been trying to say, but she was fairly confident her own objections were along the same lines. “These chains are just for a Rabid Daydream. They’re not much help against a Devouring Wind.”

“They kept the other one busy for a while,” Mark reminded her. “And the water-chain got rid of it for good.”

“That was a baby!” she yelled, fighting to be heard above the roar of the circling smog-chain. “You can’t fight off this maniac and a fully grown Devouring Wind. The water-chain’s not even complete.”

“It’s just to buy time!” Mark yelled in turn. “I’m not trying to win, just to make them look the other way. I’m a Staunch Defender, remember?”

“Mark, please…”

“Get Runar safe.” Mark put his hand on her shoulder. His grip was comforting, but then he let go and stepped away, forcing her to take Runar’s full weight. “I’ll lead them away, and then I’ll join you later. I swear!”

Daphne wished she could think straight in tense situations, or at least think faster. Her whopping +2 in Wisdom wasn’t giving her anything. Even her slightly less measly +4 in Intelligence was proving spectacularly unhelpful.

Even in the real world, Daphne had never been great under immediate pressure. It was much harder in this particular moment, when there was a noxious smog-chain — forged from actual screams of terror — screaming through the air ten feet above her head. That would have been awful enough, but the smelly screaming was also summoning something even more panic-inducing.

Runar’s head drooped on Daphne shoulder, his golden feathers brushing her cheek. Their sweet aroma briefly cut through the stench of Mud Man’s Amazing Mud Rope Act. She drew in a sharp, mind-clearing breath.

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Mark was right. Runar and the safety of his tribe were the most important things here. Daphne was a Wordsmith, not a Reader. She couldn’t be as much help as Mark in an actual fight, but she could make sure Runar and the prose-shaft stayed out of enemy hands.

Besides, Mark was a natural. He was already a Level 6 Reader, with four skills to his name. Daphne watched her boyfriend as he readied the word-chains, holding one in each hand and looping the others through his belt for easy access. His normally cheerful eyes were narrowed in concentration, lit with some strange fire she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before.

If anyone could keep the attention of a sentient whirlwind and a mud-faced loon, it was Mark Sanders.

Daphne tried to find a way to say all this, once again drawing upon all the mighty verbal abilities of an accomplished author.

“Hurry,” she said.

Then she began stumbling towards the left, dragging the limp griffin in a wide circle around the boulder.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mark dash towards the boulder and hurl himself up, catching hold and clambering up the rock face.

“For Runar!” he yelled.

Mark was a genius.

Brilliant, she thought. He’s gonna take the Wordmage down before the bastard can fully summon his pet.

Daphne tried to calm her breathing and focused all her energy on supporting the griffin in a stumbling run. If she remembered correctly, the ditch ran on for a while to either side of the boulder. Even if they veered way off to the left, it should still cross their path. Then they could climb down and have some cover as they made their way back to the prose-shaft entrance.

The boulder was behind them now. She heard Mark yelling a line from the higher level Word of Truth, followed by an angry howl from Mud Man, but she didn’t dare stop. Runar was barely conscious and her own strength was fading. Their only hope was to get to the ditch and disappear.

They made it just as a roar like a high-speed train announced the arrival of the Devouring Wind. Daphne half-fell, half-dove into the ditch, dragging Runar with her in an undignified jumble of feathers and fur. Somehow managing to get them both upright, she helped him stumble along the ditch floor. With each step, she waged her own private mini-battle internally.

Turn around! Go help Mark! — urged one half of her brain.

Keep going! Help Runar! Trust Mark! — urged the other half, just as emphatically.

Runar groaned beside her, and she tried to block out the argument entirely.

“Almost there,” she whispered as encouragingly as she could. “See? There’s the entrance!”

She pushed aside the dead branches masking the opening to prose-shaft and tried to stick her feet in. Her plan was to inch down backwards and pull Runar along after her, but her feet bounced off the hole. She tried again, but it was like the opening was covered by an invisible air bubble.

She could hear the Devouring Wind howling across the plains, punctuated by the Wordmage’s nasal shrieking and Mark’s defiant cries. Daphne trusted Mark, but she had no clue how long he could keep this fight up.

They needed to move.

“Runar!” She shook the griffin’s shoulder, speaking low and frantically into his ear. “The opening, it’s blocked. How do we get in?”

The golden eyes fluttered open. “Barred by words,” Runar mumbled. “Need the right words.”

“What are they?”

The griffin’s eyes closed again. This time, Daphne grabbed the glorious beast by both shoulders and shook harder.

”Runar! Say the words!”

This time, he drew a great, shuddering breath. She could feel all the pain of his effort as he forced his eyes open, focusing on the tunnel entrance and chanting in a hoarse whisper. “That old may be new. Ancient words spring forth afresh. Keep the way open.”

Daphne thought she caught a ripple of gold across the dark air of the prose-shaft opening. Then she was moving, sliding in backwards, helping the griffin to scramble down the steep slope.

As soon as Runar was safely situated inside the main tunnel, Daphne scrambled back up the prose-shaft. She had to find a way to signal Mark that they were clear. She had to help him make a safe exit from this impossible fight.

Hurriedly covering the prose-shaft entrance with the dead branches, Daphne tried to form a plan. Maybe she could draw another word-chain from the soil, or even just yell something really snarky as a distraction. Maybe Euloban would grant her two amazing level-ups mid-combat to compensate for its stinginess thus far, and she’d suddenly be a Level 5 badass pulling word-chains out of thin air. Then, while Mud Man and his personal hurricane were after her, Mark could make his getaway.

Maybe…

She didn’t see them when she crawled, panting, out of the ditch. Even the sounds of battle had grown faint. The top of the boulder was clear, so she climbed up to get a better view.

Mark hadn’t been kidding when he said he would lead them away. They were all FAR away, at least a hundred yards, and still running. She could tell he was following the line of the ditch, which confirmed his genius yet again. If he could defeat them or give them the slip, he’d be able to find his way back easily.

But that was a big if. Even from this distance, Daphne could tell that Mark was getting tired. He had three word-chains wrapped around various bits of empty space, so he was at least managing to slow the Devouring Wind down. That was good news. It also looked like Mud Man had to keep circling the smog-chain to control the Wind monster, so he couldn’t use the weapon against Mark. That was great. But there were still two of them and only one of Mark. ‘Staunch Defender’ or not, he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Daphne could feel the Prism buzzing hot in her pocket, like it wanted to join the fight. She closed her fingers around it. Suddenly, the next moves became clear in her mind. Maybe Euloban actually was increasing her Dexterity on the fly, or maybe the Prism’s magic was coming in clutch once again.

Either way, she saw it all. She could shout to get the trio’s attention, climb down from the boulder, and start summoning the next lines of the glowing water-chain. By the time they reached her, she’d have more weapons for Mark. A Wordsmith and a Reader, making and wielding a high-level Word of Truth? They’d send this Wordmage goon and his psychotic pet crying home to mama.

It all flashed across her mental landscape in an instant, and she opened her mouth to shout.

Then it was over.

Before she could make any noise, Mark lashed out with the glowing water-chain at Mud Man. The Wordmage shrieked in agony as the burning rope of truth and light wrapped around him. For a split second, it looked like he would drop his own weapon, setting the Devouring Wind loose.

Instead, he swung the smog-chain around himself once, and then around Mark, binding them together in a coil of noxious terror-sludge. Daphne could tell they were both screaming, but the roar of the Devouring Wind swallowed the sound, preventing it from reaching her. Then, as she watched, both Mark and the Wordmage lifted off the ground, swirling as if caught up in some massive invisible tornado. They were still wrestling, bound together by word-chains of dark and light, but they were also rising higher and higher.

Perhaps it was just the force of Daphne’s horror manifesting, but she saw the Wind. It was a monstrous form of swirling smoke shot through with lightning, like some primordial storm god from the depths of nightmare. But instead of dissipating like a nightmare, the image lingered, as if it knew Daphne was watching and wanted her to see its true form before it ruined her life.

The Devouring Wind solidified around Mark and the Wordmage, enveloping them in a whirlpool of smoke and thunder. Then it shot away, towards the mountains, leaving Daphne alone on the once-more Silent Plains.