Death hangs close on slender fates

But hope swings by beyond the gates.

Mekka stood paralysed with horror.

The Muron was draped in the remains of a long coat, once white, now badly stained with blood, riddled with holes and ripped where its elongated scaly muscles had torn through the fabric. A glitter of silver embroidery sprawled raggedly across the shoulders, barely recognisable as an outspread wing pattern.

It was a very distinctive coat; even in its decrepit state it was identifiable as the uniform of the Sky Legion's Wing Commander…

"R… Reeves?!" Mekka choked.

The Muron stepped delicately around Carmine, who lay folded up, motionless and bleeding, on the ground. His black feet were taloned, like his hands, clicking on the pavement as he prowled forward. Scraps of leather still clung to them from his shredded boots. The rest of his clothing was in tatters.

The Watcher transformed him into a Muron?! Mekka thought, stunned, blood pounding through his head.

"Sssshall we danssse again, little dark one?" Reeves hissed. "You cannot ssstrip my weaponsss from me, thisss time!"

Mekka's vision narrowed into a mindless, furious, insanely bright haze. With a wrenching howl, he charged at Reeves.

The Muron let out a coughing laugh and swiped at him, one hand after the other. He was slower than he had been as an Angel, but his reach and strength were greater.

Mekka slipped under his attack and pummelled him with his bare fists, but the black scales were impenetrable. There was a reason he had only ever fought Murons with silvertine weapons, but now he had nothing. His sense was gone, lost in blinding rage, and he didn't care. Screaming, he smashed his knuckles into the thing's body until his knuckles bled. Locking himself around one muscular arm, he twisted his body, throwing his entire weight into the motion, trying to break it…

Reeves merely shrugged the Angel off as though he were nothing more than an irritating insect. Then delivered a backhanded blow so hard that Mekka crashed into the wall of the Guard House.

Through his pain and dazed vision, overwhelmed with grief and fury, Mekka saw past the black-winged killer, saw the red-haired woman lying in a crumpled, pitiful heap on the wet stones. Her crimson cloak was torn and stained a darker, uglier hue. The shapes of the cobblestones beneath her were slowly being traced out in a similar colour. The Sword of Healing lay forlornly beside her, glinting in the gloom, a cruel mockery; without someone to wield its magic, it was nothing but a pretty trinket.

Before Mekka's eyes, the scene blurred into watery, bloodstained shadow. Time and fate had been thrown askew – only a minute earlier, Carmine had been standing there, alive and furious and sad, but full of purpose; an impossible, beautiful miracle who had defied death for so long, and now…

Everything collapsed, then. His entire world simply fell apart, as though he had been clumsy and dropped it. In an instant the floor opened up beneath him like the great black gate to the Pit all over again.

And, once again, he was falling into it, as though it had been his destiny to all along, despite his defiance, and he was falling, falling, without the strength to fight it any longer…

A cold, clawed hand clamped around his throat, slid his unresisting body up the wall and pinned him in place.

Yellow eyes bore into Mekka's, like twin shards of rotten suns, shrivelling what was left of his soul. The long black reptile snout slid close to his face. "Look what your preciousss Watcher hasss done to me!" it snarled. Ebony fangs brushed his cheek. He could feel the Muron's hot, hissing breath on his skin.

Tears spilled from the corners of Mekka's eyes, leaking over the talons gripping him. "I… did not know…" he gasped brokenly. "I did not know… that the Watcher would do… this…"

The claws tightened around his throat. "Of courssse you didn't!"

"Why?" Mekka choked. "Why… did you… kill… Carmine? She did… nothing… to you!" He sobbed. "Was it… just to… hurt me? Do you think I… haven't suffered… enough?" He was weeping openly now, uncaring, drowning in his own grief. "F-finish me… then… damn you! Take my life if… that is… what you want! I don't… care for it… any more! I never… have…"

Reeves was silent. His face remained pressed against Mekka's, even with tears trickling against it. His breathing rasped in Mekka's ear, like a blade across a whetstone.

Mekka closed his eyes, longing for the end to come, wishing those fangs would rip his throat out. He hoped that Reeves was angry enough to do it quickly.

But the moment did not come. Instead, the claws around his throat loosened.

Reeves spoke again, finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sssshe isss not dead. I did not kill her. You may ssstill sssave her life, if you act quickly."

Then his hand slipped away, his claws trailing down Mekka's neck, and he stepped back.

Mekka sagged to the ground, panting in momentary shock. But Reeves' words sent him surging back to his feet, staggering to where Carmine lay.

He took her in his arms. She was still conscious, but barely. Her back was slick with blood.

"M… Mekka…" she whispered, very faintly.

Desperately he looked around, his stricken gaze coming to rest upon the useless Sword of Healing. What did Reeves mean? How could he possibly—?

"Ssssummon the Watcher," Reeves whispered, looming up behind them. "It will take you ssswiftly to the Lady, much fassster than you can fly."

Mekka lifted his head, glaring up at him, fresh tears following the runnels already carved down his face. "What twisted game are you playing, Reeves?"

The Muron that had once been the Sky Legion Commander regarded him, lips curling back in a slow, sly grin. There was something canny in his narrowed eyes that Mekka didn't like.

He had mortally wounded Carmine, but deliberately resisted killing her.

Why?

Mekka shook his head bitterly. Regardless, Reeves was correct. Taking Carmine onto the Watcher was a terrible risk, but he had been left with no other option.

Gathering up the Sword of Healing, he pressed it against Carmine's body, wrapping her hands around the hilt. He placed a hand against her cheek. "You are not going to die," he promised her. "Lady Araynia can heal you."

She nodded weakly, her jaw clenched against the pain. He could see her fighting not to pass out.

Glancing up again at Reeves, a black shadow towering and hunched against the dark mist, he put a hand to the side of his head, closed his eyes and tried to put away his despair and concentrate.

Watcher. Are you still there?

A flurry of whispers passed through his mind in response and he shivered, as though dead fingers stroked his spine. When he opened his eyes again, he could see a blue glow at both sides of his peripheral vision. He took a shuddering breath.

"W-Watcher," he said through gritted teeth, cringing as he forced the words from his lips. "Take… take us in."

* * *

The two Redwick Guards tramped along the main street of Bridgetown in an unhurried, casual manner, as though carrying out a routine task. Most of the snow had melted now, leaving a muddy slush underfoot. The sun had climbed above the towers and rooftops, shining out of a blue sky washed clean of clouds, warming the breeze, bathing the bridge-bound city in a bright, welcoming, reassuringly-normal morning glow.

A sizeable crowd had gathered outside the Redwick Manor, and in scattered small groups around the streets: a babble of voices who had lost their fear and were now demanding answers.

The horror of the strange, beautiful, alluring wraith and the ferocious magical storm had already abated and daily life was beginning to pick itself up again as though nothing had happened. Merchants were frantically re-packing their wagons, hastening to get through the now-reopened gates before the toll collectors could resume their usual operations. Shopkeepers peered out of doorways then threw them wide, trying to cajole and persuade disgruntled passers-by with their expensive goods.

Everyone seemed to have lost their taste for the silvertine trinkets, however.

All of this passed by in the background of Sergeant Flint's awareness, as he was preoccupied at that moment trying to wrench himself out of an unbreakable grip that forcibly marched him along the street.

A huge, dark-skinned hand had sealed itself around the back of his neck, like a vise. The Guard who held him was massive, at least equal in size to his poor old mate Bloodmoon Grim, but without the beard, or the manic grin. He had a face that looked as though it was squashed into a helmet far too small for his head, his eyes so lost in his scowl they were almost closed. His biceps looked as though he arm-wrestled Griks for fun. A steel sword was clutched in his other fist, looking like a toothpick.

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No amount of clawing at the hand, elbowing the man in the ribs or kicking him in the shins was having the slightest effect. Flint tried digging his heels into the pavement, but it was still a little icy and he succeeded only in nearly throttling himself.

The second Guard was similar to Flint in size and stature. He had thrown Gastan over his shoulders like a fashionable mantle. The thief was limp and unmoving – Flint couldn't tell if he was unconscious or dead. His fancy feathered hat had stayed in place; the feathers bobbed along with the Guard's sauntering movements.

He noticed blood dripping on the ground behind the Guards' swishing black cloaks.

"You… do this often?" Flint rasped. "Throwin'… innocent people into the Chasm?"

The Guard shrugged, despite the body draped over his shoulders. "Not as often as yer might think," he replied conversationally. "Folks here ain't stupid; they got the message a long time ago. Things are nice an' civil in Bridgetown… most o' the time." He gave Flint a grin. "Always a laugh when outsiders come in an' don't know the rules!" He chuckled.

Flint gritted his teeth. "We know about yer hell-damned rules! We were… set up!"

The Guard snorted. "Sure yer were, mate. An' in the middle of the Redwick Manor?!" He whistled. "Pair 'o bleedin' galahs, the both of yer!"

Flint gave up struggling, trying to conserve his energy, trying to breathe, to think. People were staring at them as they passed: a few even clapped or cheered.

Jewels had been right – Valen was a despicable snake, going behind his lord's back like that! And after Malvern had given them explicit permission to leave! Right now, no doubt the servant was sleekly informing his master that everyone had left the Manor in a civilised fashion… everything cleaned up neat as a pin… Malvern would never even know what happened. Jewels would discreetly take the Eliminator back as soon as she was out of her brother's sight.

Gods only knew what would happen to Ferrian's Sword. He supposed Valen would cook up a nice story for that one as well; or hide it away somewhere – or simply sell it.

Damn it all for a bag of rats!! Flint thought in despair. He had royally screwed up this whole mission. Ferrian was infected with trigon because of him, and now Gastan was going to be executed as well, as a reward for saving Flint's life!

All of this because Flint had stubbornly vowed to get the Eliminator back or die trying.

Well, he was getting his gods-damned wish…

As a last, wild resort, Flint tried silently begging, within his mind, for the White Dragon's help. But either she was too far away to hear him, or Flint didn't have the ability to communicate with her like the Lady or Ferrian could, because he received no reply. No giant glittering winged shape swooped down out of the blue to save him.

Why didn't I listen to the Dragon? Flint thought morbidly. Why didn't I get the hell out of this city when I had the chance?

Dammit. The Lady and the others are up there waitin' for me to return, and I ain't never comin' back, and they're wastin' time while Ferrian's wastin' away…

He could feel his will to live ebbing away with each forced step, his muscles becoming slack. Bleakly, he could think of no better plan than taking this brick wall of a Guard down into the Chasm with him…

There was movement in the street ahead. Flint was pulled roughly aside as the Guards hastened to make way.

A troop of twenty mounted soldiers charged through the Golden Gates, bearing down the Bridge at speed. The horses and their riders were clad in fine blue, black and silver livery – with silvertine weapons but armour of light steel and leather and cobalt-coloured cloaks. The lead rider, on a magnificent white charger, was a handsome dark-haired Sirinese man wearing a multi-hued blue coat, a long fur-rimmed cloak flapping out behind him as he rode, and an expression on his face that rivalled Ferrian's storm.

General Pine? Flint wondered fleetingly.

He had a sudden urge to yell out his injustice to the Imperial soldiers, but, as though sensing his thoughts, the Guard's hand squeezed his throat tighter, choking off any possibility.

Then the soldiers were past and he was being shoved across the road in their wake. Glancing to his left, he saw them all rein in outside the Redwick Manor, scattering the crowd amassed there. The General leapt off his horse and strode up the steps as though he had a few particular words of his own to hurl back at Lord Malvern…

I hope that bastard Valen finds himself on the pointy end of some of that disgruntlement, Flint thought vindictively. He hoped that General Pine was perceptive enough to see past the servant's smooth charm, to understand who was really running Bridgetown.

Then all further thoughts of the Redwicks or General Pine evaporated as they approached the mouth of a narrow alleyway between the high buildings.

Flint's heart pounded. He felt his muscles tense back up.

The alley was closed off by an ornate wrought-iron gate, topped by the same gilded torch-bearing eagle crest that had adorned the Redwicks' now-shattered entrance doors. The Guard carrying Gastan stopped in front of it, produced a key from his belt, and inserted it into the lock.

The Guard pushed at the gate with some effort; a considerable amount of snow was still piled up in the alleyway, as yet untouched by the sun.

To Flint's dismay, however, the Guard got the gate open and then they were all shoving their way through.

Flint grabbed hold of the icy metalwork as he passed, but his captor simply kept moving, like an unstoppable boulder. The Freeroamer was forced to let go or have his neck broken. The Guard didn't seem to care either way.

Then they were trudging single file down the chilly alleyway, their boots compacting the ice. The walls were featureless stone, slick with frost and grime. It didn't look like a passage that was used very often.

The sky was a strip of lonely blue very high above.

Flint felt bleak.

They halted again a few seconds later, at another ornate gate. It looked as though it had once been gilded, but most of the gold coating had flaked off, leaving exposed, rusting iron. A few weedy pink flowers had gained a foothold in the corners, entwining themselves like living counterparts around the curling metalwork.

Flint wished he could hold on to the last few minutes of his existence as tightly as those hardy little plants were.

There was a squeal of tortured hinges as the second gate opened, and they passed through.

A strong, cool breeze washed over them as, quite suddenly, the city dropped away and they found themselves suspended, improbably, over an enormous, vast, sunlit… nothing.

They had emerged into a kind of cage protruding off the side of the Bridge. It was cylindrical in shape and about twelve feet in diameter; with the four of them in there – including one Guard who was big enough to count for two – there was not a lot of space to manoeuvre. The ceiling came to a sharp point and was covered over with terracotta tiles, though there were gaps where some had fallen away, letting in golden bars of sunlight and glimpses of roosting pigeons and old nests.

The outer curved wall and the floor were made of decorative wrought iron, orange with rust and glimmering with remnants of gilding.

Flint made the terrible mistake of looking down.

Beneath his feet, there was a lot of down.

So much of it that he couldn't see where it ended.

There was only sun-glowing mist and, deeper than that, endless shadow.

And endless silence.

With a strangled gasp he looked away, assailed by vertigo. Briefly his mind detached itself from his head in a surge of horror so profound that a primitive part of his brain sat up and screamed. Flint let voice to it, struggling with renewed fervour.

The huge Guard simply held him at arm's length as though he were a temperamental toddler.

The other Guard whistled cheerfully as he unlocked the third gate.

This one led nowhere.

The doorway to the Chasm.

"Any last words?" the Guard carrying Gastan asked, as the gate squeaked out into open air. He turned. "Not that it matters. Obliged to ask, y'see."

"We… ain't done… nothin'… wrong!!" Flint shouted, or attempted to, with a throat half-constricted, prising with all his strength at the hand crushing him.

The Guard stared at him in disappointment. "Well, that's borin'," he complained. "That's what they all say!"

Flint added an imaginative string of invectives to his statement, involving a combination of diseases, bodily functions, animals and various foodstuffs.

The Guard brightened. "Yeah! That's more like it!"

And with that he stepped up to the opening, swinging his weight forward to drop Gastan into the void…

"Nooooo!" Flint howled.

Something smashed into the Guard's face, sending both him and the thief sprawling backwards.

And then the cage was full of flashing silver, the whole thing bouncing and squeaking on its support struts with the sudden flurry of movement. Panicked pigeons took off from the roof.

The Guard holding Flint gave a surprised grunt and released him, swinging his sword at the unexpected intruder. Flint threw himself to the side of the cage, clutching the metal latticework with one hand, his bruised throat with the other.

The Guard was attempting to fight someone who was far too nimble to be caught by his blows, his blade raining showers of sparks off the sides of the cage.

Flint regained his breath in time to see the big Guard grunt again and stagger backwards, tripping over his stunned comrade on the floor, but somehow keeping his feet. Seeing an opportunity, the Freeroamer took it.

With a furious cry, he barrelled into the Guard, shoulder lowered like a battering ram, crashing into his sternum. Flint bounced off, but had achieved what he wanted: the Guard took another couple of steps backwards.

The big man was now dangerously close to the edge of the open gate. He looked dazed, blood leaking from a blow to his flat nose.

"Be a right shame if no-one ended up in the Chasm today, eh?" Flint snarled viciously. "After you blokes went to all this trouble!"

And he landed a final, brutal kick to the man's chest.

The Guard didn't seem to realise there was nothing behind him until it was too late. He tried to take another step back, toppled out of the opening and fell away. A second or two later, he started screaming.

His scream went on for a long time, fading away as he punched through the mist and vanished into the bottomless emptiness of the Unforgivable Chasm.

There was an annoyed sigh from behind him. "That was unnecessary."

Flint turned to see an Angel standing in the middle of the cage. An Angel with soft pale brown wings and a white uniform displaying silver embroidered wings over armour that sparkled in the beams of sunlight. He carried no weapons, one hand resting on his hip and a disapproving look on his handsome, boyish face.

Flint thought he had never seen anyone so wondrous in that moment, not even Hawk.

Bursting out in a laugh which ended in a sob of relief, the Freeroamer sagged against the wall. "Tander!" he gasped, shaking his head. "How in all the hells did you… find us?"

The Angel folded his arms, still looking disgruntled. "I went to dispose of the trigonic dagger in the Chasm. On the way back, I decided to swing past the city to see if I could… well, determine what had become of you. I expected the worst, considering what happened to Ferrian." He raised an eyebrow. "I caught sight of the Redwick Guards dragging you here. Fortunate timing, indeed."

He levelled his gaze at the Freeroamer. "Now, would you like to explain what in the Goddess' name has happened down here?"

Flint just stared back at him, slack-jawed. His mind had gotten caught on 'dispose of the trigonic dagger' and travelled no further.

"You… you wha…" he started hoarsely, then shook his head abruptly, rubbing his hands on his face. "There ain't no time for explanations." He gestured at Gastan, lying motionless on the floor beside the one remaining unconscious Guard. "This man needs help."

Tander looked down, then went to his knee at the thief's side.

"He is alive," the Angel reported, to Flint's great relief. "But badly injured." He glanced up at Flint. "Who is he?"

"Name's Gastan," Flint muttered. "I'll tell yer the rest later. Can you get 'im to the Lady?"

Tander nodded, gathering the stricken man into his arms and getting to his feet. He strode to the open gate and paused, looking back. "What about you?"

Flint turned away from the Angel's concerned expression, pulling his hat down to hide his beaten-up, bloodied face. His fists clenched, teeth grinding. "I'm gonna go and get the damned Eliminator back."

Tander stared at him incredulously. "You still haven't found your crossbow?!"

Flint gave a bitter snort. "I found it, alright. The Redwicks have it."

"The Redwicks?" Tander hesitated, then let out an exasperated breath. "Wait for me."

"What?"

"I said, wait for me! I will come back and help you."

Flint shook his head angrily. "Hell no! Too many people have already—"

"Save your arguments for later, too." Tander's gaze was hard. "You are not going into the Redwick Manor alone, Sergeant Flint. Find a place to conceal yourself and try not to get killed before I return."

"I don't need—"

But then Lieutenant Tander was gone, soaring out over the canyon, his wings catching the morning sun, uplifted by the breeze, sweeping Gastan the thief away to safety, leaving Flint alone in the cage with the single Guard.

Flint directed his ire onto the Guard's prone body, with a boot to the ribs.

As the man began to stir, groaning, Flint considered tossing this one off the edge as well, Tander's disapproval be damned… but then, looking him over, a better idea occurred to him.

Crouching beside the Guard, he waited until the man had recovered enough awareness to focus his eyes on Flint. Then the Freeroamer grinned back.

"Now who's laughin', eh, mate?" he said, before punching the man back into oblivion.

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