“I do not know about you, but I think this is all going splendidly.”

  Daine reflected that a person could never tire of throwing menhirs at Donal Assay.

  It was not that his running commentary on the retreat from Swinford had not been an absolute delight. After all, she could hear her every decision being questioned in that slightly supercilious tone all day. Which was fortunate, all things considered, as that was precisely what was happening.

  And it was not just that Donal was possessed of what she had chosen to describe as ‘resting smug face’ – although when the light caught his profile in a certain way, it was quite hard indeed to restrain herself from reaching over and slapping him senseless.

  It was not even his nauseating habit of how, when being proved to be right after a decision was made contrary to his advice, he did not even have the decency to say, ‘I told you so’.

  Of course, his face said it very loudly for him, but the words themselves never breached his lips.

  No, Daine thought, straining to take the weight of the rope bridge whose one side had inconveniently snapped precisely in the way Donal had predicted; it was a dreadful combination of all the above.

  All that and with him being resolutely unkillable, of course.

  The biting wind whipped through the narrow pass their scouts had uncovered right in the middle of the Bloodspires. Donal, with all the unearned confidence of his ridiculous Class had argued vociferously that there was a reason this bridge was not showing on any of their charts, but he had been repeatedly shouted down.

  As Taelsin had argued, when food and water were running scarce, and the civilians you were supposed to be protecting were starting to seem as much of an enemy as the bandits that preyed on the edges of your column, any shortcut was to be grasped at.

  Even one that seemed too good to be true.

  Daine ground her teeth so hard she felt a faint crack and silently cursed herself for not voicing her concerns more forcefully. A sudden, fierce gust surged against her back, and she braced her legs, leaning into it, pressing against a wind strong enough to knock anyone else off their feet.

  The peaks of the Bloodspires were above, their snow-capped summits dissolving into mist, merging with the clouds as if climbing toward infinity. Below, a vast chasm yawned – dark and soundless – its depths shrouded in shadow. She could almost feel the pull of it, a silent hunger ready to swallow anything—or anyone—that slipped.

  If her grip failed, the refugees would fall into that endless night, as lost and forgotten as the echoes swallowed by the abyss.

  Spanning the chasm was a single rope bridge, swaying precariously in the wind—a bridge no one they’d met on their journey had ever mentioned.

  Or, more accurately, what remained of it: frayed ropes and splintered planks dangling like the remnants of some forgotten lifeline, stretching uncertainly across the vast expanse.

  Daine, resolutely ignoring the small, bearded man perched improbably on the cliff’s edge beside her, stifled a groan as her muscles screamed in protest. Her large, calloused hands—Orban Farmer genes finally put to good use again—clenched around the frayed ends of the rope bridge, which had snapped just as half of Swinford’s refugees had made it across. Her grip was iron, her knuckles white, every sinew straining to keep the fragile lifeline taut against the abyss.

  She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the hundred-foot drop below and the rather intimate acquaintance she was beginning to make with gravity.

  "Think of it this way,” Donal was just too far outside of spitting range, “It’s just another day in the glamorous life of a legendary hero. Think of all the songs that these poor souls will sing of you." He paused and cast a sceptical eye over the remains of the bridge. “Of course, that does somewhat presuppose any of these brave pioneers actually survive the next few moments.”

  “Yes. It rather does.” Daine could feel her arms start to tremble and she pushed the pain out of her mind. At least that was something of which she had experience. "Is there any danger of you actually helping me here? I’m sure this new Class of yours must have some Skills that are useful in such a situation?”

  At the edge of her hearing, she could make out Taelsin trying to organise the soldiers that had gone on ahead to secure the route through the Bloodspires to return to add their support. Either way, they were unlikely to return in time.

  “I’m afraid not, my Lady. Holding together a bridge with nothing but sheer Willpower is far more your sort of thing than mine. I’m just here for the moral support."

  “Excellent. What would I do without you?”

  “Well, quite, my lady.”

  The remaining handful of refugees – the very old, the very young and those who did not possess a Class useful enough to be at the head of the column - were trapped in the middle of the bridge.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When the rope had snapped, Daine had moved without thought, time seeming to halt as the full horror of what was about to happen struck her. She’d leapt forward, seizing the weight of the broken bridge, her body bearing the strain in one fierce, unyielding motion.

  What followed was an interminable discussion—a debate she’d endured with clenched teeth—about whether they should retreat or press forward.

  Yet, grim practicality won out: cut off from the main column, this group would face nothing but starvation, slow and merciless. That hard truth had settled the matter, and so, one by one, they’d begun to shamble forward again, crossing with the desperate resolve of those with no other choice.

  Daine grimaced, shifted her grip and dug her heels deeper into the rock, trying not to make eye contact with the forty or fifty faces that were staring at her in hopeful horror. A mother clutched her child close, murmuring soothing words that did little to mask her own terror. An elderly man, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane, shuffled forward, each step a somewhat pointless act of defiance against the seeming inevitability of their fall.

  "Keep moving, folks!" Donal called out, his voice unnecessarily upbeat to Daine’s mind. "This is no time for sightseeing."

  A young boy, probably no older than eight, ran forward – encouraged by his mother – and crossed to the other side, stopping to stare at Daine with a mix of awe and disbelief. His eyes flicked to the abyss below, then back to her. "Are you a wizard?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.

  Daine snorted, though the effort made her wince. "No, lad. Just a very old knight who does not know any better. Now move it before you find out how deep that chasm really is."

  The boy nodded vigorously and scampered clear, his small figure quickly lost among the crowd on the far side. Soldiers were beginning to appear from that direction, clambering down towards her. Daine had no idea what they thought they could do to help.

  Maybe they just wanted a better view of her last moments.

  “Not that I want to add unnecessary jeopardy to proceedings, but those bandits are back.”

  Daine's arms screamed in protest, but she held firm, her gaze flicking between the fraying ropes in her hands and a small group of horsemen that were galloping up the path the refugee column had been following for the last few hours. “How long?”

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Donal!”

  “I’m just trying to keep your pecker up, my lady. I’m afraid they’re going to catch up before these stragglers are over to this side of the chasm. However, if we’re taking the positives out of the situation, I doubt any of them would be so foolhardy to risk crossing the bridge. I imagine they will make a similar determination as I did when deciding against this course of action. Good for them.”

  Daine lifted her head to the sky and let out a bellow of pain. The Bloodspires, for all their majesty, seemed indifferent to the plight unfolding on their slopes. Their jagged edges were softened by patches of snow, and the sky above was a brilliant blue, a stark contrast to the darkness below.

  A crunch next to her pulled Daine’s attention back to the moment. “Sir, are you eating?”

  Donal took another bite out of some sort of jerky and then offered it to her. "Just a lovely spot for a picnic, don’t you think?"

  Not enough menhirs in the world, Daine thought.

  With the added panic caused by a group of horsemen arriving at the opposite side of the bridge, the refugees began to run towards safety, each step causing the bridge to groan and sway. An old woman paused to give Daine a nod of gratitude. "Bless you, child," she whispered, touching her hand to the Templar’s sweat-streaked face.

  "Blessings are nice," Daine grunted under her breath, "but I'd settle for a hot bath and a night not on watch duty."

  She was aware of Donal suddenly standing up; the ridiculous, giant bow he had insisted one of Swinford’s make him in his hand. “Don’t mind me, my lady. I judge yonder fellows would benefit from a little discouragement to begin their own crossing.”

  “Oh, did they think it was a good idea too, then? Funny how that happens, isn’t it?”

  There was a woosh as Donal released an arrow – one of his new Skills increasing the speed of the shot to a blur – and there a cry of outrage was carried to her on the wind.

  “And, just like us, one of their number has had cause to bemoan the choice.” Again, a certain smugness had crept into his tone. “I think that is likely to be the last of them who considers that a sensible idea. Speaking of which, we’re nearly done our end, too.”

  The last straggler—a burly man with a single leg and a face that looked as though it had lost a few too many brawls—stumbled his way across. As he cleared the edge, Daine felt the muscles in her right bicep tear, her Strength drained beyond its limits.

  She took a shuddering breath, pushing down the searing agony as she gave one final heave, wrenching the remnants of the bridge to her side, ensuring no one would be able to follow. The effort left her trembling, and with a grim satisfaction, she released her hold, collapsing onto the rough, unforgiving ground, her body spent, but the refugees safe—for now.

  "Well done," Donal murmured, pressing the jerky to her lips. “Take a bite. All sorts of healing properties.”

  Daine chewed down on the tough meat, surprised at how quickly she felt her healing speed up. She supposed she should not doubt this strange little man knew what he was about. She took a moment, staring up at the sky, now tinged with the colours of approaching dusk. She could hear the murmur of the army behind her, a mixture of relief and admiration.

  “Give the Lady Darkhelm some space, please. Why don’t you all press on with a nice relaxing walk?" he added. “We’ll catch you up.”

  A wry smile came to her lips despite the exhaustion etched on her face.

  From a distance, Taelsin’s voice rose, calm yet commanding, a steady thread weaving through the scattered, weary crowd and binding them back together. He moved among them tending to the wounded, offering steady hands and a gentle word, sharing what precious little food and water remained. Even in their darkest moments, his presence gave the refugees from Swinford shape and focus.

  If these people had a reason to keep pushing forward, then Taelsin Elm was it.

  Daine watched him and felt a flicker of hope rekindle. Faint but resilient. As long as they had Taelsin—his unwavering resolve, his quiet strength—they still had a chance. With him, she realised, they might yet find their way through this.

  Whatever ‘this’ was.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position, her arms feeling like lead – which at least was an improvement. She looked out over the chasm, the wind still howling, and those bandits now finally cut adrift.

  Daine stood, albeit shakily, and moved to join up with the rest of the group.

  Taelsin winked at her. “Never in doubt, my lady.”