* * *

“This way!”  Fenn stood at the intersection of two bone-white powdery paths.  He pointed off to the right.  He had a small, crumpled parchment-map in one sweaty hand.  The sun rose in the eastern sky to his right, glinting off the shiny cliffs of the gorge around him.  The air smelled of burned minerals and rotting magic.

          “What’s the bloody rush, Laddie?”  Thistle came trotting up behind him, hauling her pack like a mule.  Wafe was not far behind her, her supplies jangling on her belt, her pale blonde hair in her eyes.

          “I don’t know,” Fenn said, gazing out at the distant clouds of smoke on the northern horiz...

Please subscribe to keep reading.