“There’s nothing to tie it onto,” said Mordan. He was right; the ground on each side of the chasm was strewn with boulders, but there were no trees or anything else that could be used to anchor a rope.
“Don’t worry,” replied Tarrel. “I’ve got that covered.” He uncoiled the rope and offered one end to Brey.
“Just a minute,” she said. She closed her eyes and concentrated, and her form shifted. Her arms and legs grew shorter. Her chest broadened, and her fingers extended, growing thin membranes of skin between them. A huge bat crouched on the ground where the woman from Thrane had been standing.
The bat took the rope in its taloned feet and launched itself into the air, crossing the chasm with a few beats of its powerful wings. Once on the other side, it changed back into Brey. She took the rope in a firm grip and signaled that she was ready.
Tarrel wrapped the other end of the rope around his body and tested the ground with his heel until he was sure he had a secure footing. Then he turned to Mordan.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
“How are you going to get across with no one to hold the rope?” asked Mordan.
Tarrel grinned. “Trust me,” he said, leaning backward to take up the slack.
Mordan hooked his left elbow around the rope, held on with his right hand, and swung his legs up and over. Tarrel leaned back further to take his weight, and gave him a nod of encouragement. Slowly. Mordan began to inch his way along the rope. He’d done it often enough as a cadet at Rekkenmark—although he’d had both hands then—and it wasn’t long before he reached the other side. He dropped to the ground beside Brey, and saw Tarrel straighten up.
“So what’s he going to do now?” he wondered.
As if in answer, Tarrel shouted across to them. “Get ready to pull!” he called.
Mordan and Brey looked at each other, then Mordan took hold of the rope.
“Ready?” yelled Tarrel. Brey waved an acknowledgment. Then, to their surprise, the half-elf ran toward the edge of the chasm and threw himself off.
Instead of dropping like a stone, Tarrel floated gently down. Brey and Mordan pulled on the rope, reeling him in. His feet hit the side of the chasm a few feet below the edge-much more gently than if he had fallen at normal speed—and they hauled him up the rest of the way.
“How did you do that?” asked Mordan when they had pulled him up. Tarrel grinned and folded back the lapel of his coat. Stuck into the back was a small gold pin, cast in the shape of a feather.
“These are popular in Sharn,” he said. “It is the City of Towers, after all—and falling all the way from Palatinate can ruin your entire day.”
Mordan didn’t have time to reply. With a screeching cry, a pack of ghouls burst from hiding behind the rocks. Standing on one of the higher rocks was a figure they recognized—the same wight who had attacked them in Karrlakton.
“Kill the woman!” he shouted, and the ghouls crowded around Brey, clawing and biting. She scattered them right and left with powerful blows of her fists, but while she was occupied, the wight leaped from the rock and advanced on the two mortals.
Mordan drew his rapier. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tarrel pull out his wand, but there was no beam of searing light. Tarrel cursed, and Mordan’s heart sank: The wand had expended all its energy. Tarrel drew his shortsword and the two of them watched their enemy approach.
The creature lashed out at Tarrel, but Mordan blocked the attack with a flick of his rapier. The enchanted blade cut a deep gash in the wight’s arm, and he drew back with a snarl.
“You’ll pay for that!” he spat, and struck at the Karrn with a bony fist. Mordan barely dodged in time; this thing was even faster than he was.
A clawed hand struck his right wrist, sending a numbing chill through his whole body and knocking the rapier from his hand. He fumbled for the dagger in his belt, knowing he wouldn’t reach it in time.
Then something dark flew through the air, landing on top of the creature and knocking it to the ground. Brey had launched herself from the midst of the ghouls, somersaulting high in the air and dropping down onto the wight. They both rolled to their feet.
“Cover my back!” yelled Brey. Mordan picked up his rapier and moved to guard her as the ghouls ran to the attack. Tarrel came to his side.
There were a half-dozen of the creatures, hairless, dressed in rags, and with blotched purple skin that looked like one huge bruise. One fell right away, clutching at the hole Mordan’s rapier had made in its belly. Tarrel cut savagely at another, which fell back with a deep cut in its shoulder. Mordan slashed a third across the neck, and the others hesitated momentarily. He risked a glance back.
Brey and the wight were locked in a deadly embrace, each holding the other’s arms. They were testing each other’s strength, and the first to falter would be the first to die. Brey kicked her opponent savagely in the groin, but he didn’t flinch. They continued to grapple.
The ghouls had regrouped, and rushed at Mordan and Tarrel in a mass.
“Don’t let them touch you!” yelled Tarrel. Mordan nodded—he had heard that these things could paralyze the living. Sometimes they even started eating them before they were dead.
His rapier flicked out, and another ghoul dropped to the ground, clutching at a gash in its belly. Tarrel stabbed another through the throat, and it fell back. Mordan dodged a slashing claw, and impaled its owner with a savage thrust. The two remaining ghouls retreated; now that the odds were even, they weren’t so brave—especially as one of them was badly wounded. Mordan made a mock charge, and they turned and fled.
The two turned to see Brey and the wight still locked in combat. He tore one hand free and clawed her viciously across the face; she drove her knee into his midsection, striking him between the shoulder-blades as he bent over. Then, before he could straighten himself, she seized his head in both hands and twisted savagely.
Instead of resisting the torque, the wight rolled with it, lashing out with a foot and tripping Brey. Mordan and Tarrel rushed forward, but she was already back on her feet. The wight looked at the three of them.
“We’ll meet again!” he snarled, and turned away, leaping over the rocks with unnatural speed and grace.
“Oh, no!” Brey snarled back. “This ends here!” She dropped to all fours, shifting into the shape of an immense, red-coated wolf. Within a couple of strides she was upon the wight, her jaws clamped onto the back of his neck. The wight tried to dislodge her, but she wrestled him to the ground, shooting an urgent glance to her two companions.
Mordan ran over, rapier in hand, and stood over the two struggling forms for a moment—then thrust hard between the wight’s ribs, twisting his blade in the wound. The creature howled in agony, writhing and clutching at the elven sword, but the wolf-Brey had his throat in a crushing bite and he could not escape. His struggles became gradually weaker, and at last they stopped altogether.
Brey shifted back to human form. Her cheek still bore the wounds from the wight’s claws, but as the two mortals watched, they faded and vanished, leaving no trace of a scar. She stared down at the body of her foe for a moment.
“That was no ordinary wight,” she said.
“Nothing from this unit is ordinary,” replied Mordan. He had sheathed his rapier, and was kneeling beside the creature’s body. Its shoulder was tattooed with the badge of the mysterious Unit 61, and he set about cutting the skin off with his dagger.
“Souvenir?” asked Tarrel, raising an eyebrow.
“Evidence,” replied Mordan, “for the next time someone tells me this badge doesn’t exist. Oh, and you know that feather pin of yours? Magic doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to in the Mournland. Remember the blood-creature, when your wand stopped working for a moment? You were lucky this time, but a non-magical backup plan is always a good idea.”