The Woodsman’s voice seemed to come not just from the fallen tree above the chasm, but from the depths of the abyss itself. It shook the ground beneath me and the sky above.

The gray sky of death descended on the fallen tree. The longer I looked into the darkness the more I could see. Despite the distance, I beheld the Woodsman pinned to the tree like an insect to a collector’s board.

The shark-eyed flying reptile hovered, surrounded by flailing minions, circling as if riding a column of air. Wings outspread, he slowly descended upon the tree. He circled his prey cautiously. He tested the Woodsman with a peck of his beak on his outstretched hands. I heard his deep-throated gurgle of delight as the Woodsman offered no resistance. He pecked and pecked at him, becoming bolder and bolder.

Then a guttural voice, soaked in evil, cried out from the great flying dinosaur.

“Bleed, Elyon! Suffer and die, mighty fool!”

His claws clutching the Woodsman’s neck, the flying reptile drove his beak into the Woodsman’s eyes. Suddenly the smaller beasts pounced like jackals, picking and eating and gorging themselves on the morbid feast.

I turned away, crying out, partly for his agony, partly for my complicity in it. For though the beast frightened and repulsed me, through the pounding of the nails I had become his partner.

Pacing now, I told myself that the nails I pounded were not fatal, that really they were little more than pinpricks in the giant’s feet. But the moisture I’d seen in the Woodsman’s eyes and the gut-wrenched tone of his voice said otherwise.

How could I be part of something so monstrous? I’d always believed I was a decent person, sincere, well-motivated, that my good outweighed my bad. Then who was this Nick Seagrave who swung the hammer, who chose to inflict suffering, who served the purposes of the evil beast? Had I just seen the real Nick Seagrave, perhaps for the first time?

Why did I hate the Woodsman so much that I would hurt him so badly? And why, a moment later, did part of me desperately want to love him, so much that I felt I would die if I could not? Who was this person who I would want to hate and love so? I thought of someone else I’d both hated and loved—my father. But this one was far greater than my father, and the love and hate I felt was greater still.

I lay on hard, unforgiving ground, my body aching, my soul tortured by all my questions. Believing the Woodsman was dead already, I was surprised to hear one last word shouted from the center of the tree over the chasm: “Paid!”