And so, her tears fresh, her pain real, she wandered blindly in the tunnel, the souls of the lost calling her name, knowing her past, her hopes, her dreams, her fears, but they did not understand her, not at all. If they did, they would know she would not be swayed. In this pitch black afterworld, their hunger was all there was. But Tirielle had no room for pity. She followed the voices of the living. That was where her duty was, and always would be.

She followed them, the real and solid. The Sard talked constantly. She let herself be led by their words, ever forward. She had heard that in the wilderness a person tended to walk in circles. She hoped that was not their fate.

The voices of the dead came from outside, tinny and frightening, pleading, urging, begging her to come to them. No matter how persuasive they were, she was not about to go to them.

She was not ready to join the dead.

Her skin prickled, and she turned around. Something was following her. A blinding light, rushing toward her through the tunnel. She could suddenly see Carth’s broad back through the tunnel ahead of her.

“Something’s coming!” she called.

Carth spared enough breath to call back to her.

“Run,” he said, with no urgency, but she thought she knew what was coming — the destruction of one side of the portal. The world of the living was reclaiming this place.

So j’ark had finally died, joined the lost. She hoped he would find peace, some sort of resolution. Strangely, now she knew he was gone and that there was no hope of him ever joining her, her tears dried up. He had done what he set out to do. Looking behind her, she realised this was their only chance. She ran. The light felt warm on her back. It was approaching.

It seemed like an age, but it was difficult to tell the passage of time in the blackness, and even the light rushing toward them was only peace, nothing to be afraid of, let it wash over you…she shook her head, and renewed her pace.

In moments, she could see light in front of her, too. Like snow falling, or ice.

She saw Carth disappear, and she threw herself forward at the approaching light, away from the chasing, blinding light. She knew which side she wanted to be on.

The voices of the dead cried out in anguish.

In her head, she heard one among them.

“I love you,” it said. She knew the voice well. It sounded clear, crisp, but it did not plead for her to stay. She knew he was not among them. He was no longer lost.

She dived through, from darkness into light.

And tumbled into the arms of a grizzled warrior, strong arms wrapping round her and pulling her away from the portal.

“Run!” the warrior urged. She needed no imprecations — she could feel the wind howling through portal at her back. She ran as hard as she could, the burly warrior’s boots slapping the cracked ice beside her.

There was no time to question, no time to take in the amazing sights around her (ash raining down, the sizzle of a magical battle, a trio of barbaric warriors herding them toward a mountain larger than she had imagined possible…but only noticed in the blink of an eye.)

Then the world exploded. The wind was suddenly pulling at her (no! not back into the after world) and she was struggling against it, running with all her might. Quintal was beside her then, and threw her to the ground.

Snow, ice and rock tumbled around her, some cracking from Quintal’s armour. Eventually, the ground beneath and above calmed, and she rose gingerly.

She took the time to look around. There was now a massive crater where the portal had been, its radius stretching at least a hundred feet.

She dusted herself off, and looked around. The bearded warrior was grinning at her.

“Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” he said, his accent strange and somewhat guttural, but not, she realised, unrecognisable. He was speaking Lianthrian. She had expected a different language, at least.

“Saviour, meet the First. This is Tirielle A’m Dralorn, the Sacrifice,” said Quintal with a warm smile.

“Not me, I’m just along for the ride,” said the warrior with a grin. “Not for me, illusions of grandeur. You’ll be wanting Shorn. That’s him, over there. Can’t miss him, he looks like the Wildman, the one with the big scar — I wouldn’t bring it up, though. He’s a bit touchy.”

“Renir!” shouted the man above the din of magic colliding and the battle at the foot of the mountain, “come on! There’s a path here. Drun’s soldiers say this is the way to the wizard.”

“Alright, I’m coming!” the warrior called Renir shouted back. He turned to Tirielle and said, “He’s a bit bossy, but you’ll get used to him. Shall we go? I don’t think the Teryithyrians will be able to hold them back for long.”

Tirielle risked a glance down at the battle, and saw…white rahkens!

“You have rahken allies!”

“Don’t know anything about rahkens, Tiri, but they fight like devils. Good to have them on your side. I see there’s a brown one with you,” he said, pointing up the slope to Roth’s receding back. “Be good to know your friend, too. With any luck, that is. And if we don’t get moving the Teryithyrians won’t be able to keep the Protectorate busy…and I get the impression that you’ve got an engagement you need to keep.”

“From the sounds of it, the wizard stirs already,” said Quintal, clambering up the slope in a dignified manner, while the barbarian climbed hand over hand, throwing his great axe ahead of him.

“If this is him stirring, are you sure it’s wise to wake him up?” asked Renir, gaining the pathway (if it could even be called a path — it was crumbled and ragged).

“We have no choice,” said Quintal. “It is destiny.”

“Fate’s got a funny way of playing tricks on you. I’m just now coming to realise that,” he said, somewhat enigmatically.

He pulled Tirielle up behind him.

“Where is the Watcher?” she asked warily. It wasn’t turning out as she expected. But then, what had she expected? That she would be met by more shining paladins, like the Sard, shimmering in their armour? The warrior called Renir was begrimed and rugged as the mountains, but his eyes shone with a certain kind light. She found herself warming to him already. There was no guile in him, no rancour, and, she realised, even though they were surrounded by enemies and beneath the aftermath of a terrible battle, there was no fear.

She had grown so accustomed to being around men — and Roth — that felt no fear she had come to take it for granted.

She fell into contemplative silence, and concentrated on catching up with the rest of their strange party. Ahead was a dark man, built as large and broad as Carth, but bald, his head glinting in the cold winter light. A wiry old man, clean shaven, carrying two short swords after the Protocrat fashion, clambered alongside the Sard. The one known as Shorn seemed to be limping…perhaps he had been injured in the battle — it would not be surprising. Even the Sard had fallen to the red-robed warriors, for all their skills, for all their power.

She warned herself not to underestimate the barbarians. They had allies as powerful as her own, the white rahkens, fighting by their sides. And they had survived this far.

She longed to meet the Saviour (Shorn, damn it, soon I too will be babbling about fate along with the paladins) and shake his hand, if they followed such customs in this land. But then, they too, were foreigners in this icy wilderness.

Are they warriors born, like the Sard, she wondered, or just men thrust into fate’s whirling pools the same as her? Drun Sard, she knew of, even though she had never met him. She imagined he would be wizened, possessed of wisdom granted by long years of life and hardship. Where was he? The man that could lead the paladins must have an amazing presence…would he have a kind face, or would he be stern and forbidding?