I landed in Life’s room. I’d been aiming for the hallway, but I’d take what I could get. If my ring had unlimited range I’d have been three room away by now.

The spear in my shoulder was no longer in my shoulder. I almost missed it. The moment I reappeared the wound started itching like there was a colony of ants gnawing at it. A night’s healing every few seconds, or a week’s every minute. Nearly two wakeful years worth of itching condensed into a single hour. The worst of it was that it might not be enough. Once the itching subsided a bit I’d probably need a second spell to fully recover.

At least I was alive.

The stone on the other side of the wall cried in pain; echoes from one of the women. A storm of clicking followed.

Now that I was slightly more safe I was able to think. I scrabbled to my feet and drew my handcannon. My right hand kept straying to my wound. It would be good to have something to occupy it. And defend myself.

The Trogodytes had powers similar to my own and the ogre. Healing. Controlling weapons after they’d left their hands—

No. No that wasn’t it at all.

It was one power.

They were reversing time.

It all came to me in the same flash of insight. The spears had pulled back because they were travelling back along the path they’d followed. My spells had vanished because they were sent to before when they’d existed. Their leader had healed by either sending herself back in time, or one of her subordinates doing so for her.

It seemed they needed to know where they object was they were effecting (somehow, they couldn’t see, could they?) for they hadn’t forced me to teleport back into the midst of them.

So I needed to either kill them with something they couldn’t see, was too old and consistent to reverse, or kill them all at once before they could react and save themselves. If they couldn’t save themselves automatically. And assuming I was even right about their power in the first place.

It certainly fit. I wouldn’t risk everything on that understanding, but it was my best bet.

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Clothes Hanger

I wanted to be ready for anything.

I cast my ring-gaze over my spells. It was slower than using my fingers, but my left arm still wasn’t up for it.

I had a bit of a problem.

Swordferno and Swordferno II would have trivialized a multi-pronged attack, but I’d lost both in the last few days. Sword Storm II before I’d lost half the blades had the potential to be able to do it. Even my remaining spells might have been enough if I’d not already cast most of them escaping the Trogodytes.

My cutlass, handcannon and natural talents might be enough to take down one or two of the trogodytes, maybe even three given my superior strength and armour, but there was five of them and they could reverse time.

That left using dark magic.

The voices rose around me as I focused on them. Whispers nibbled my earlobe and ran fingers across my throat. Each bore a name—its own name—telling me what I could do.

Piercing Shield

Spawning Cauldron

Hindering Claw

Glass Aura

Intoxicating Blood

Plasma Torrent

Amber Cloud

More. Moooore. Mooore.

I knew what the final voice meant. Knew it like I knew my own name. All I had to do was demand.

It was my life at risk. I’d used dark magic before to save it. There were few more worthy causes. I could gather a dozen spells to my breast and crush the Trogodytes. Make myself invincible to their spears and their magic.

And yet.

I was the Darkswallower of Bleakfort for a reason. It wasn’t enough to demand. Not always. The warlock hadn’t even been able to protect himself against a chained and crippled foe. One with true magic. Less true magic then I had now.

He’d turned his flesh to wood. Blotted out the light. Invaded my mind. And it hadn’t saved him.

There then was the cost of dark magic. One of them.

The promise of victory unearned. The knowing of victory unearned. Why wouldn’t dark magic be the answer? It had destroyed the rats and the bees. It had given me water and protected me from traps. It had saved Gunhild’s life and protected me from her treachery in return.

Just this once.

Just this once.

Always.

Always just this once.

Arrogance and overconfidence were a small price to pay for such easy access to power.

They always were.