OUT OF REACH

Thunder. That colossal crack, like a peal of it, swallowed every breath of the forest in a single second.

When the centuries-old juniper came down on the very center of the camp like a giant whip torn loose from its roots, the ground shook violently. The horses' shrill, agonized screams mingled with the deafening noise of splintering wood. The thick dirt and rotten-wood dust thrown into the air turned the dark of night into a pitch-black blindness.

The instant Krazoc felt the wheel at his back shatter, he threw himself forward, heedless of his chains. By the time he sprawled face-first into the mud, the massive trunk had grazed past his back.

He rose to his feet, coughing on the dust that had filled his lungs. Across that white, empty expanse in his mind, a single name rang out: Alister.

I can't reach him, he cried into the White Void. I can hear him, but I can't reach him.

There was no camp in front of him. There was a massive wall of wood, impossible to cross, splitting the camp clean in two, its thick branches interlaced like barbed wire. The tree had cut the squad in two. On Krazoc's side there was no one but Garrick, wiping the blood seeping from his forehead as he drew his sword.

But the sounds from the other side of the tree—from where the boy was—froze Krazoc's blood. The clash of swords, a pain-filled groan, and Vance's shrill, panicked shouts... The enemy was there.

With a roar, Krazoc hurled himself at the massive trunk. Heedless of the pain of his heavy shackles, he shoved his hands between the branches, trying to tear through the wood to the other side. But the tree's texture was not natural; the trunk, strengthened with the Essence of Being, stood as high as Krazoc's chest. The branches had knotted together loop upon loop, like barbed wire, to block any crossing. To reach the other side, Krazoc would have to go around the tree.

"Watch your back!" Garrick shouted.

Bandits came lunging out of the forest's shadows, attacking the pair's side as well. In light leather armor, with masks covering their faces and curved blades in their hands, they closed in like a silent but lethal pack.

With the military reflexes that came from years of service, Garrick swung his sword and cut the first attacker's throat. The captain turned back and opened his mouth to bark a tactic at Krazoc, but the sight before him caught the words in his throat.

Krazoc had no weapon. But he had no need of one, either.

When a raider lunged at him, he caught the man's sword out of the air with his bare, calloused hands. Not caring in the slightest that the steel bit into his palm, he yanked the man toward him, sword and all, and brought the thick iron chain on his arms down on the man's masked face like a mace. The sound of the skull caving in drowned out the crackling of the forest.

Just then, Krazoc's eyes locked onto the real threat, standing in the shadows by the roots of the fallen tree. The enemy squad's Channeler of Being—the Herbalist—was there. It was plain how much essence the man had spent on Essence Augmentation to topple this enormous tree; the ground where he stood had dried out completely, the trees behind him had gone gray, and every flower around him had rotted to ash within seconds. Nature itself had all but given its life for this man's magic.

He had done his job. Now he was free. The man in the black robe raised a thick reed into the air, one he had worked with Essence Augmentation. The tip of the reed, turned into a deadly weapon by the Essence of Being, had blossomed into a petaled flower honed to a razor's edge.

Krazoc lunged forward to tear the man apart. His chain's reach was short, but one more move—one more step—might be enough.

For the space of a single heartbeat, the world blurred.

Then Krazoc was standing exactly three steps in front of the Herbalist. He did not remember how he had gotten there. He did not know how he had closed the eleven yard between them. His body had done something it knew on its own.

And the price came due.

Something inside him vanished—from somewhere deep—but he could not name what it was. His vision trembled for an instant. His arms gave out under the weight of the chains in his hands.

My body knows, the void inside him whispered. I don't. And what I don't know weakens me—because of my inexperience.

A small smile appeared on the Herbalist's cheek. The man had seen what he wanted. The whip came down like lightning and opened a deep, bloody gash across Krazoc's back. The sharpened flower-tip had ripped his skin like a claw. Krazoc dropped to his knees in pain.

At the same moment, a raider on his flank thrust out his spear. Krazoc spun, caught it one-handed—but in that same instant the Herbalist's whip grazed his shoulder and neck again. Every victory was chased by a fresh wound. Every move he made was left half-finished.

"Garrick!" he wanted to cry out, but the captain was living his own hell. Three raiders had surrounded Garrick, forcing the old soldier into a relentless swordfight.

Garrick's voice reached him from nearby, through the clash of blades: "Go around it! I'll hold here! Get to the boy!"

But Krazoc couldn't go around. The three raiders around him and the Herbalist's crossfire from a distance had pinned him where he stood. Every step, a new lash of the whip. Every move, a new blade.

I can't reach him, he cried into the void again. My boy, I can't reach you.

---

On the other side of the tree, it was a desperate fight for life.

The wagon had been crushed flat, and the makeshift campsite had become a heap of wreckage. Attackers came bursting out of the dust cloud, tightening their circle like wolves that had cornered their prey.

"Stay behind me, little one!" Broc roared.

The hulking man had thrown himself over the boy to shield him as the tree came down. One of the enormous branches had crushed his left shoulder badly, leaving his left arm all but numb. But Broc swallowed the pain. There was no trace of the gentle giant in his eyes. With his one good arm he hoisted that heavy, massive mace and planted himself in front of the boy like a wall of flesh. He had no grace, no speed, but when he swung the mace he sent the two raiders before him flying, armor and all.

Alister had curled up behind Broc like a clenched fist.

The boy's mind was like a glass that had burst apart. The pain of Broc's torn shoulder, Elara's panic up in the treetop, Vance's trembling fear, the last breath of a dying raider, the final thought that fell through the mind of the man before Krazoc as his skull was crushed—all of it poured into him at once. Never before had he felt this much, all at the same time. He sank to his knees and clamped his hands over his ears—but it was not through hearing that the sounds reached him. His mind was a flawless receiver, and right now the world was an inferno.

"Stay back, you filth! I'm only a healer!"

Vance's voice came from the corner of the wreckage, cracking with fear. The Herbalist, physically weak and unable to wield a sword, had his back against a broken barrel, rummaging through his leather satchel with trembling hands. When a raider raised his sword and lunged at him, Vance pulled a small glass vial from his bag and hurled it into the man's face.

The glass shattered, and the searing yellow acid inside melted the raider's mask, sending him collapsing to the ground amid screams. Panting, his eyes wide with terror, Vance drew out another vial. "Ten years of my work! Wasting Remne Root on mud-rats like you!" he whined—but his hands didn't stop. His fear was the only weapon keeping him alive.

A faint whir came from the upper branches of the forest. Elara glided through the darkness of the trees like a ghost, dropping a raider closing on Broc with every arrow she loosed. She was a self-sufficient, agile hunter.

But the enemy was no band of ordinary brigands. It was a tactical assault squad, and it held more than one mage among its ranks.

On the forest floor, another enemy Herbalist, his face hidden by a black robe, pressed his hands into the earth. The thick vines around the tree where Elara perched came alive with the power of the Essence of Being inside the Putridglass in his hand, climbing upward like snakes.

Elara saw what was happening and tried to leap clear, but the vines coiled around her ankle like a whip. With an agonized scream, the young woman fell from many yards up. Her bow flew from her hand. Her body went still and vanished among the thick leaves.

"Elara!" Broc shouted. The moment his attention slipped, a raider's spear punched clean through his thigh.

The giant dropped to his knees in pain. But he did not fall. Keeping the boy behind him, he braced his mace against the ground and gritted his teeth.

Alister trembled behind Broc, touching the man's bleeding back with his small hands. The boy's mind brimmed and overflowed with Broc's pain.

For a moment, just a moment, he lifted his head.

Through the branches of the toppled tree, his eyes met Krazoc's.

No words passed. No telepathic message. Only that look: not fear, not a cry for help—a goodbye. As if the boy had understood he could no longer be saved, and wanted to give Krazoc one last thing: I saw you.

In that White Void inside Krazoc, for the first time, something broke.

He paid no mind to the whip coming down on his back. He paid no mind to the sword about to drive into his throat. Once more, Krazoc hurled himself at the tree.

This time with something else.

A force his body did not know warmed his muscles. His palms burned. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose. His vision blurred. The world slowed. His massive hands clamped onto the trunk—the branches began to groan, to crack, to split.

This time, what vanished inside him did not come back. A piece left him, permanently. Krazoc felt it but could not tell which piece it was.

Krazoc would get through. Whatever the cost, he would get through.

Then, the moment he broke through, Broc's cry cut off like a blade.

Krazoc plunged into the darkness.