image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]
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The next few hours were spent tying up loose ends and preparing to teleport to Saltcrust.
Fig didn’t pretend to understand how the transportation spell was going to work, but Rick seemed fairly confident he could do it, which was fantastic news to her.
Not only would it mean avoiding an arduous overland journey back to Saltcrust, she wouldn’t have to spend an additional week in the company of Dorian fucking Darling.
In the twelve hours since they’d met, Fig had swiftly realised that if she didn’t manage to get away from him as soon as possible, she would probably kill him. It was like his personality had been perfectly designed to set her on edge.
With luck, they’d be out of each other’s hair in a few short hours, she would be debt free, and this entire ordeal would be done with. Fig could only hope.
Before he prepared the spell, Rick excused himself to quickly walk around Vishrac-Uramis examining the ancient murals covering the temple walls. It was the whole reason he’d come here, he said, and it was likely he wouldn’t get another chance.
They hadn’t seen any sign of the slimes since the flood washed them all away, so it seemed safe enough. Dorian offered to accompany him, and they left the Chest shortly after, each carrying an ether crystal, scavenged from the wall lamps, as a makeshift torch. And just like that, Fig found herself alone in the Chest with an hour to kill.
She took a bath behind the bamboo screen in the living space, using a cloth and soap to clean the litany of minor cuts and bruises she’d picked up from the fight with the slimes. Everywhere Slimy Lez had managed to grab her, hands, forearms, and patches of her legs, were hairless and tender, with raw pink flesh. It was like the first few layers of skin had been eaten away with strong acid. Fig could imagine all too well what might have happened if the slime held onto her any longer. She’d seen Cove’s body with his lower half dissolved. At the thought, she said a small prayer to Draxar, the Face of War, thanking him that she hadn’t received any more serious injuries in the battle.
While she used the bath, Fig also soaked and wrung out her filthy clothes, then hung them by the crystal heater to dry quickly. It wasn’t perfect, but by the time she got dressed again in clothes that were still a bit damp, she felt more refreshed than she had in days.
Fuelled by curiosity, and with some time before the others returned, she sat down at the Chest’s rosewood writing desk, and leafed through the Illisar papers piled around it.
Her search wasn’t particularly methodical. She just grabbed whatever bits of writing looked most eye-catching, but fragmented pieces of a story started to emerge from the disorganised mess of correspondence and notes.
A lot of the papers were letters from members of the Illisar family, addressed to Malvaris, the old patriarch, begging him to return to Vostrel and abandon his search in the Ashram Desert. His wife, Liselle, and son, Corundum, wrote frequently, sometimes several times a month, imploring him to return to them.
That was curious; Fig had never thought of Corundum Illisar as the type to beg for anything. He’d always seemed a proud and ruthless military man. He’d certainly defeated her with vicious efficiency in the Solstice Tournament. But his letters here painted a different picture, one of a young man at his wits’ end, barely holding his family together in Malvaris’ absence.
What had drawn the old arcanist away to his eventual disappearance? Fig dug a little deeper, moving away from the letters and on to Malvaris’ own notes, which were a chaotic jumble, partially torn and crumpled as if they’d been on the receiving end of some aggressive handling at some point.
There were charts, commentary on histories, and receipts for excavation equipment. It appeared Malvaris had become obsessed with finding their family’s old sunblade, Sunfire. The name of the sword came up over and over again, lost during the Forgotten War, somewhere in the fallen kingdom of Cthalvaliss. The old Alfir had been tracking it across whatever sparse reports remained from the conflict, trying to figure out where in the Ashram Desert it could be.
The blade was apparently undetectable to his spells, so he’d resorted to a gruelling physical search that lasted years, digging up old ruins in the sand, and chasing leads to the buried sites of old battles. A good portion of the Illisar fortune was frittered away on the endeavour.
It didn’t make much sense to her. What possessed a man to put the security of his family at such risk, even for a legendary enchanted blade, when there was no guarantee he would ever find it?
Fig suddenly felt very foolish. Was she really questioning the depths of another person’s obsession, after everything she’d done to her own family, and over a sword no less?
It was as she shook her head sadly that she noticed a letter bearing the seal of the royal family, a letter from the Emperor himself.
Ulithien Mindaris III, called “The Sunset Emperor” by some detractors for his failure to stall the Dynasty’s slow decline into instability, had written to Malvaris, shortly before the Illisar patriarch’s disappearance.
Fig read the letter, then she read it again, confused and sure she was missing some vital context. It was surprisingly informal, and seemed deliberately cryptic.
It read;
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Malvaris,
The words of your previous letter weigh upon me, just as I know your labour wears on you with every passing day. Rest safe in the knowledge that I have taken steps to secure your son’s future in my service, and I attend to your family’s welfare in your prolonged absence. I have not forgotten your work, nor my debt to you.
I urge you to find whatever strength it takes to continue your search, and keep in strict confidence that burdensome knowledge which necessitates it. Do not stray from your course. Should The Child return in our lifetime, we will need every weapon to protect our people.
Enemies surround us, but they will not remain shrouded in shadow forever. All that is hidden from Vandrin’s eye will be revealed, sure as dawn, starting with Sunfire. I have faith in your ability, and your conviction. Do not disappoint me.
Your liege,
Ulithien
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Fig leaned back in her chair, turning the letter over in her hands.
So the Emperor himself was the one pressing Malvaris to continue his doomed search. Strange that he would take such a personal interest. As far as Fig had ever been aware, the Emperor’s typical behaviour was to remain aloof and detached from the internal affairs of the noble families, especially historically minor players like the Illisars.
What was this “burdensome knowledge” the Emperor spoke of sharing with Malvaris, or the vaguely mentioned “Child”? Fig didn’t have any idea. Threats to the Dynasty, both real and existential, had always been numerous, but this felt like it was referring to something very specific, and she had none of the information she needed to interpret it.
The letter was dated to just a few months before Malvaris was supposed to have been swallowed by a sandstorm. It seemed fair to assume that things had not gone well on his search. Perhaps more answers lay in the scattered documents around the desk, but they would have to wait. She could hear Rick and Dorian returning down the stairs, and their priority for now was to prepare the spell and leave Vishrac-Uramis.
Fig folded up the note for later and rose from the desk.
Dorian descended first, caught in the middle of boasting loudly to Rick about his part in some improbable adventure in the Land of Giants.
The scholar followed, looking a bit haggard. It was clear Dorian had been talking his ear off the entire time they were outside the Chest.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Fig asked Rick, cutting Dorian off and pointedly ignoring him.
‘Some,’ Rick responded, ‘The murals aren't the easiest to interpret. I have the feeling that I would have found a lot more useful information in all those Archive records I accidentally destroyed in the flood.’
‘I’m sorry, that sucks, but there wasn’t much we could do to avoid it at the time,’ Fig said, ‘Do you at least know your next step?’
‘Possibly, but I need a little more time to put things together,’ he paused, considering, ‘Do you think Saltcrust would have detailed maps of the Eire Coast?’ he finally asked.
‘That cursed place? Well, if anyone does it’s the pirates,’ Fig said, ‘They’ve been trying to establish a good trade route with Garrell that avoids the Dynasty’s navy. The Eire Coast is dangerous but it’s their best shot. You can always ask Mirabelle about it when you meet her.’
Dorian cut in, ‘You know, I’ve been meaning to do a proper expedition up the Eire Coast for the longest time. Absolutely fascinating place, I hear, but largely uncharted and prone to strange disappearances amongst those who venture in. It obviously requires the expertise of a professional. Luckily, you have me! If you’re headed that way, young Rickard, never fear, I’ll be more than happy to lead you.’
‘Ok, but… do you actually have a map of the Eire Coast, Dorian?’ Rick asked.
‘Oh, I rarely rely on maps, my dear boy!’ Dorian responded, shaking his head and chuckling, ‘That’s no way to travel. They distract from the journey. The true path of a Gentleman Adventurer is to strike out on pure instinct, letting intuition and luck be your guide. It’s never led me astray.’
‘Didn’t you just end up locked in a basement for three months?’ Fig asked in a dry voice.
‘More or less,’ Dorian said with a grin, ‘but then the two of you broke in here to rescue me, and we’re about to teleport to a pirate island. You can’t tell me that isn’t an adventure worthy of my writing talents! So I stand by what I said, it has never led me astray.’
Fig stared at the smiling idiot. It baffled her that he could be so chipper about the circumstances relating to his near death, not to mention the deaths of thirty or so other captives, at the hands of the slime colony.
She opened her mouth for a retort, but stopped herself before the words could find their mark. Arguing with Dorian would only piss her off and waste time when they could be getting ready to leave, so she turned back to Rick instead, ‘How soon can we get out of here?' she asked, forcing the conversation back onto a productive track.
Rick nodded and opened the Book on the table beside him, ‘I’ve already cleared a space and drawn out a magic circle up above, but there’s still one more thing I need before I can cast the transportation ritual,’ he said, examining the diagrams inside.
‘And what is that?’ she asked, hoping it wasn’t going to take too long.
‘Conceptual anchors,’ he said, pointing her to a section of the Book. Fig didn’t know why he bothered, she couldn’t read it.
Seeing her blank look, Rick continued, explaining, ‘I need something originating from Saltcrust, infused with that location’s ethereal signature, to connect the ritual to its target destination. Multiple items would be even better. It helps the spell narrow in.’
Fig thought for a second, then fished into her inner breast pocket for the weathered old pirate map she’d used to plot her journey. It was bedraggled and fraying at the edges, but Rick accepted it without complaint.
‘That’s good. Do you have any more?’ he asked.
She shook her head, ‘My clothes are all from other places, and I still haven’t found my old cutlass since the flood. I bought that sword in Saltcrust; I think it was even forged there,’ Fig said.
‘Along with the map, that sword would be perfect,’ Rick said.
‘Yeah, but it got stuck inside Slimy Lez and washed away when the flood hit us. I’ve been keeping an eye out for it, but it could have ended up almost anywhere in the temple,’ Fig responded, shaking her head, ‘Can you do the spell with just the map?’
Rick, examined the map for a second more, and looked down at the Book.
‘Um… I think so?’ he said at last, then nodded, ‘Yeah, I can always try a few times if it doesn’t work at first. We have plenty of food, and it doesn’t matter if we’re stuck here for another day or two while I figure it out.’
Another day or two with Dorian.
Fig looked over at the writer. He’d lost interest in their conversation about the spell and wandered away from her and Rick. Now he was prancing in front of a floor length mirror in the corner, playing dress up with different robes and hats from the drawers by the bedside. He noticed her looking in the reflection and waggled his eyebrows at her.
Fig scowled back. At this rate, she didn’t think she could hold out for another couple of days before she properly snapped at him.
A thought occurred to her and she slapped her forehead.
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‘Shit, I forgot about Slimy Lez’s stash!’ she said, ‘there’s a whole room full of junk nearby, some of it must have come from Saltcrust. He definitely visited the place, and some of his victims were mercenaries who worked for Mirabelle. We’ll find something there.’
Rick’s eye lit up, ‘Wasn’t some of that stuff pretty valuable looking as well?’ Rick asked, and Fig nodded, remembering.
‘I meant to circle back to the junk room after we opened the Chest, but it slipped my mind once we found Dorian,’ Rick said.
‘Now’s our chance then. Let’s go and see,’ Fig said, heading for the stairs.
She and Rick made their way back to the junk room, with Dorian following along and tripping over the hem of a sparkling green robe that was far too long for him.
The room full of the horde’s junk stash was the real treasure trove of this mission, as far as Fig was concerned. After a quick search, Rick found an old rum bottle stamped with the seal of a Saltcrust distillery, an old smoking pipe carved into the shape of a ship, and a dented brass spyglass in a case with some naval charts relating to the various smugglers coves around the island.
‘At least one of these should give me a strong enough connection for the spell,’ he said, loading them into his bag.
Fig and Dorian grabbed as much silverware, fine ornaments, and assorted valuables as they could carry, loading up their pockets and the discarded travel packs lying around the room. The more they brought with them, the more they could sell or trade for a tidy profit when they got back to Saltcrust. Mirabelle was going to take the chest and its contents, but there was still room for Fig to make a little bonus on the side.
By the end, she and Dorian each had a couple of laden packs slung over their shoulders, while Rick, who couldn’t lift as much, led the way back with an ether crystal torch.
Fig’s good mood at the haul of loot was diminished by the way Dorian just would not shut up about his travels. He talked constantly as he walked behind her, drifting from one story to another without any apparent coherence, or any encouragement from Fig or Rick.
‘...of course that ship sank shortly afterwards, and I was set adrift for three days in the Wine Sea in the shell of an old whiskey barrel. Naturally, the sweet aroma of the liquor attracted all manner of predators, and I had to beat away sharks and tentacled monstrosities with a plank of wood every few minutes as they circled me looking for an opening to strike. I said to myself, “Dorian, you can’t keep this up for much longer!” but a family of seagulls eventually took pity on me and helped to push me into a fast flowing ocean current. I used my excellent navigational sense to ride it all the way back to Trent, where I paddled to the docks. Can you believe, the harbourmaster there tried to charge me a whole silver sun to moor my barrel to the jetty? The swindling cheek!’
Fig tried to zone out the ridiculous tales, but some details were so outlandish she found it hard not to listen and roll her eyes. How many of Dorian’s readers in the Heartland actually believed this bullshit?
Their packs were heavy with valuables, and the straps bit into her shoulders uncomfortably as they walked back to the Archives to complete the transportation spell. But Fig pushed through, panting and marching forward with determination. There was not much longer now until they finally got out of this place.
They were about halfway back through the Administrative Wing, crossing a junction where four corridors intersected, when Dorian suddenly stopped talking.
Fig should have been happy at the reprieve from his incessant babbling, but the effect of his sudden and uncharacteristic silence was so jarring that it grabbed her attention. She turned around to see what was going on.
Dorian had come to a complete halt and put down his packs. He was glancing around, down the dark corridors and through shrouded doorways, with a slightly confused tilt to his head.
‘What is it?’ Fig asked.
‘I don’t know, but something isn’t right,’ Dorian said. His eyes were serious. The expression looked very strange on his face.
Fig checked on Rick, who had also stopped to see what the fuss was. He stood a short distance ahead of her, holding up the light, but seemed fine for now. She indicated for him to keep an eye out and stay quiet, raising a finger to her lips with one hand as she drew another ether crystal torch from her pocket with the other.
Rick nodded and got the Book out ready. It could be nothing, but if something happened, they were going to be more prepared than they’d been the last time.
The corridors and rooms around the junction were dark and silent. Fig and Rick’s lights didn’t penetrate far, but nothing seemed amiss. Nevertheless, Fig was having uncomfortable flashbacks to the moments just before the slimes had cornered them in the Archives.
She was naturally sceptical of Dorian’s intuition, but she hadn’t lived this long by disregarding warnings, so she shrugged off her packs and drew Whisper from its sheath.
What had Dorian noticed that was bothering him so much? Fig strained her ears but couldn’t hear anything.
The writer was backed up against the nearest wall, rubbing his palms on his cloths anxiously as he looked around and hyperventilated. He looked ready to bolt.
‘Dorian!’ Fig hissed, ‘What’s–?’
Then she heard it.
The scratching sound of claws on stone, so soft it was barely perceptible.
She whipped round, just in time to see a prowling Ragon’ta Hunter emerge from a doorway at the edge of their torchlight.
The reptile was ten feet long from its gleaming jaws to the tip of its powerful tail, and moved more quietly on two feet than anything that size should be able to. Leather straps adorned its torso with long colourful feathers that fluttered as it shifted, and a wickedly sharp sunglass dagger glittered in its hand.
The Hunter was behind Rick. Its huge yellow eyes fixed on him with killing intent an instant before it pounced.
Draad always told her, the benefits of gruelling combat training were that even if you didn’t have time to think, your body could move on its own accord to save your life, or someone else’s.
It proved true, as Fig’s mind caught up with her body a fraction after it had already pushed off to intercept the Hunter.
Rick’s eye widened, still unaware of the danger as Fig dashed towards him. He cowered back, but she passed him with a launching step and clashed with the Ragon’ta almost in mid air, barely in time to stop its attack cutting Rick down.
Her left hand grabbed the Hunter’s wrist with panic fuelled strength, forcing the sunglass blade to halt as it descended for a killing blow. She couldn’t stop the huge beast’s momentum though. The mass of the Ragon’ta sent them both crashing backwards into Rick, who crumpled to the floor under the combined weight of Fig and the Hunter as they struggled for control. She lost hold of Whisper and heard it clatter to the ground nearby.
The back of Fig’s head bounced off the stone floor. A hot ache spread around the back of her ears and the nape of her neck. Stars fizzed in the corners of her vision as she fought for clarity. She was vaguely aware of both Dorian and Rick shouting, and she could feel Rick struggling underneath her, pinned by the fight that had ended up on top of him.
The Ragon’ta Hunter swung wildly at Fig with one huge fist, bludgeoning her body and raised left arm in attempts to free its knife hand from her unrelenting grip. Her ribs lanced with pain, and she felt them crack under the onslaught. The Hunter was stronger than her, but she clung on tight in the knowledge that one slash from the impossibly sharp blade could easily end her. The Ragon’ta gave up on that approach and reared back, pinning her to the ground with one huge clawed hand, and cackling as it opened its enormous jaws wide to strike swiftly and tear off her head.
In that instant before the jaws descended, she could see all the way down the monster’s throat, but it made a mistake by giving her that small measure of distance. Fig’s right arm flashed out and found Whisper’s hilt lying in reach. She brought the blade between herself and the rearing reptile, and lunged out in a single smooth motion. The floor at her back became a platform to push off with great force, as the tip of the blade pierced right through the tough scales of the Hunter’s breast.
It shrieked a reptilian cry of pain, and blood poured from its mouth as it fell back, coughing so violently that it sprayed Fig’s face with viscous crimson. She used the moment to roll to her feet and level Whisper at the Hunter as it got back up. That thrust should have collapsed a lung, but somehow the fucking lizard was still alive!
Her whole body hurt, her vision was blurry from the head trauma, and her cracked ribs screamed with every movement. She saw Rick crawling away from the fight and towards the Book of the Undying King where it had fallen to the ground.
This was bad, there was no way the Hunter was down here alone. The rest of the pack would be arriving any second.
The injured Hunter lurched forward to attack again, slashing at her throat with the sunglass dagger, but it was slower now. She evaded the attack with a frantic backstep, and Whisper flashed out to counter-strike across the Hunter’s fingers, causing the dagger to drop from its ruined grip and smash into sparkling shards on the ground.
The Hunter roared in her face. It was getting frenzied. Its own blood dripped from its teeth as it lashed out again and again with its claws, forcing her back, filled with enraged strength, and even more dangerous as its regard for its own safety disappeared.
When would this fucking thing just give up and die!
Fig should have been able to swiftly outmanoeuvre her opponent as it grew slower, but her injuries were causing problems. She staggered, and groaned with each evasion, growing more certain that something was very wrong with her head. Her sense of balance had almost entirely abandoned her. It was all she could do to avoid the wild claw strikes.
Free of their struggle, Rick had succeeded in getting to his knees on the other side of the Hunter. Fig saw him out of the corner of her eye, opening the Book in front of himself and starting to mutter an invocation. No! Didn’t he realise he was still far too close to the Ragon’ta?
Fig gritted her teeth against disorientation and tried to get in and finish the reptile, but it raised its thick arms like a meat shield to block her thrusts. Though she viciously cut scaled ribbons of flesh away, she failed to get an opening on a vital spot.
The space around Rick’s hands distorted as he summoned power, looking up at the Ragon’ta with an expression of fear and resolve.
Where the fuck was Dorian!
The wounded Hunter’s wide yellow eye flashed to the scholar, its attention drawn by the disturbance of magic, and it spun to lash out.
‘Rick!’ Fig slashed at the reptile, shouting a warning, but it was useless as the strike connected with a sickening crunch.
Rick went flying. He smashed against the far wall of the junction and crumpled to the floor. Blood seeped freely from a gash on his head. The spell he’d started summoning fizzled, unfinished.
Shit!
Fortunately, that second of distraction was all Fig needed to dispatch her opponent. With the Ragon’ta’s back turned, she drove Whisper through the space between its skull and spine. The beast shuddered to its knees, letting out a final gurgle before it collapsed forward, dead.
But it had come too late.
Fig stumbled to Rick
He wasn’t moving. The Book of the Undying King lay useless beside him. Fig checked his pulse, his breath.
Shit! Her head was pounding from the impact with the floor, she was nauseous, she had a split lip, and she could feel her broken ribs grinding under her skin. It was difficult to even narrow her focus enough and drown out the overwhelming sensory noise to reliably check Rick’s vital signs.
She thought she felt a pulse, but it was weak. He was unconscious, not dead, not yet.
A reptilian shriek sounded faintly from another section of the temple, unmistakably a response to the death throes of the Ragon’ta Hunter she’d just dispatched.
The fucking hunting party found their way into Vishrac-Uramis.
‘We left the door open,’ she muttered to herself. When they entered the temple it had been reassuring to leave a clear way out, but in hindsight it was a stupid mistake. She’d known the hunting party might be out there searching the area, and Rick and Fig’s tracks were all over the clearing at the temple entrance.
She looked up. Dorian was slumped against a nearby wall, looking on with horror. He'd barely moved an inch during the fight.
‘Come here!’ she commanded.
The sound seemed to snap him from a daze.
‘I'm sorry. I froze. Is he ok?’ he asked, as he scrambled over. His whole body was trembling.
“Gentleman Adventurer”, the fool fell to pieces as soon as the first hint of danger appeared.
‘Of course he isn’t ok,’ she spat, ‘Quick, pick him up or drag him. You need to get him back to the Chest!’
‘W-What?’ Dorian stuttered.
‘Do you know how to dress a wound?’ Fig demanded.
‘His head is bleeding so much…’ he whispered, shying away from the blood.
Fig slapped him, hard. Dorain fell back, clutching his face and looked at her with shock and outrage.
‘Pay attention you preening fuckhead!’ Fig shouted, ‘Do you know how to dress a wound?’
Dorian nodded mutely.
‘Good,’ she took out the stone control ring for the Floating Chest and pressed it into Dorian’s hand, ‘Get him back to the Chest. Get inside. Close the lid. Keep his airway clear, check his core for more injuries and stop the bleeding.’
She picked up the Book of the Undying King and shoved it at Dorian, ‘Put this in his hands and make sure he keeps holding it. It might help to keep him alive.’
‘But… aren’t you coming?’ Dorian asked, starting to crouch down in a daze and lift Rick’s limp body.
The sounds of angry reptilian cackling and the drum of claws on stone echoed through the corridors, growing closer and louder by the second.
‘There are more of those things down here with us,’ she said, using her elbow to grimly wipe the blood from Whisper’s blade, ‘I’m going to make noise and lead them away, so you two can get to safety, then I’ll double back.’
She noticed Whisper was vibrating like a tuning fork. The black gemstone in its pommel hummed, and pale light flashed along the edge of the blade.
That’s new.
‘Let’s hope it helps,’ she whispered.
‘Fig, you should come with us,’ Dorian gasped, heaving Rick into his arms. Thankfully the frail scholar was lighter than he looked.
‘Just get moving,’ she barked, pointing him down the corridor that led back to the Archives.
He obeyed at last. She watched him stagger off into the darkness with a crystal torch held in his hand, and Rick’s head hung over his shoulder, unresponsive
Just stay alive and wake up, please.
Fig turned, taking breaths deep into the base of her lungs. Her ribs screamed at her but she overruled the pain with the necessity of preparing her body for whatever came next.
She picked up her own torch, and brandished Whisper as the blade’s humming reached an insistent pulsing pitch that reverberated up her arm in rhythm with her racing heart.
‘It’s just you and me now,’ she spoke softly to the enchanted blade, ‘No need to be shy. It’s time to show me what you can do.’
The sounds of thundering footfall reached the next junction along, and she heard the Ragon’ta chattering angrily to each other as they raced towards her. Her vision blurred again and she had to lean on the wall for support.
Yep, she’d definitely hit her head too hard. Damn it! There wasn't time to be injured right now. She tried to shake her head clear.
Run Fig.
She spat a wad of blood from her mouth and licked her split lip, ‘Not yet.’
The hunting party's approaching eyes reflected the light of her torch in the darkness. They were closing in fast.
Run.
Their leader bounded ahead of the pack with its mantle of jangling caste bones, eager to add her fingers to its polished collection.
Fig face contorted as she screamed at the approaching Ragon'ta, so loud that her voice immediately went hoarse from the effort, then she turned and sprinted shakily down a hallway leading them away from the Archives.
The Ragon’ta snapped and clawed behind her, four of them, huge and bristling with sunglass weapons. They skidded on the stone floor, and one crashed into the wall as they rounded the corner to give chase.
Run!
[End of Chapter 9]