“There’s more of them,” Kosar said, his heart sinking, his whole body sagging in defeat. He did not want to know what it was like to take a sword between the ribs, yet his mind was reaching ahead, imagining the next ten minutes. “There, look to the left. Two hundred steps away.”

“I see them.”

“We can’t fight them in the dark,” Kosar said. “We’d stand a much better chance if we could see them. Damn the clouds for hiding the moons tonight!”

“It can’t end like this!” A’Meer said. “It’s so pointless.”

“You need light?” Hope said. The witch had crawled up between them and now she knelt, shrugged her shoulder bag off and delved inside. “Close your eyes for a second so that you can adapt. Perhaps it’ll blind them for a few moments, give us the first strike.”

Kosar saw the shadows gliding in across the ground, moving from cover to cover, hoods and cloaks making them all but shapeless . . . but there was no mistaking their intent. He obeyed the witch and closed his eyes.

His eyelids turned red as light burned in from outside. He heard something hissing like a huge snake and could not stop himself from looking. The light blinded him for a moment, and he brought up his free hand to shield his eyes, keeping his sword at the ready. Fire danced in the sky, balls of flame leaping left and right, seemingly bouncing from each other and then ricocheting elsewhere, dodging and lighting the landscape. Kosar gasped, mesmerized for a few seconds by the display, but then Hope clapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “It’s just chemicala.”

A’Meer was standing, facing the shapes that had been stunned into immobility by the sudden illumination. There were six of them, hoods hiding their faces but not their intent. Swords drawn, the Monks readied themselves for the attack. In the sparkling light their cloaks seemed redder, the heathers about their feet a brighter purple. Even the smell of the undergrowth seemed richer. Or perhaps this close to death, Kosar was seeing and sensing with a startling clarity.

A’Meer loosed an arrow into the first Monk, reached back, plucked a new shaft from her quiver, fired, reached, drew, fired. In five heartbeats she had put an arrow into each shape, and they barely moved.

“Passed right through,” Kosar said. There was no blood, no sign of any wounds. “The arrows went straight through.”

A’Meer paused, then drew and fired again at the first Monk. The arrow struck its face and exited behind its head, hood flapping as its feathered tail flicked it. The shaft struck a rock way behind it, snapping in two.

“So is this bad magic back so soon?” Hope said, aghast.