The acceleration was terrific. His cheeks pulled back like rubber and his eyes streamed like a cruck spring in full flow. He felt invisible fingers trying to rip off his clothes as he sped earthward faster and faster. Maybe this was what it was like for a raven, pulling in its wings and plunging straight down through nothing but air, a feathered arrow flying for no more reason than the sheer joy of the hunt. Ark was no raven, though. Wingless and out of control, he was not the hunter but the victim as death stalked him, about to claim the prize.

Ark closed his eyes as the thatched roof of the kirk reared up to meet him. So this is how it ends.

WHOOOF! There was an almighty thump and Ark felt the breath punch out of his body. Milliseconds later, this was followed by an earsplitting crack. Ark briefly smelled a whiff of some strange perfume and then everything went black.

All was well. Ark drifted, feeling a wonderful warmth cover and fold around him. The sensation soaked into him. If this was death, why were Dendrans so worked up about it? He remembered falling from the clouds, something about a king. It wasn’t important now. He could just float here forever. The Holly Woodsmen were spot on. His spirit was definitely making its way down the River Sticks. Eventually, Ark would cross to the other side and walk the woodways of the Far Country. Now that was a journey worth making. He tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed closed. No matter. The blackness was welcoming. He sniffed. A wonderful smell filled his nostrils. Wasn’t that incense?

“My Ark. My fallen angel!” The voice was tinged with hysteria. “Come back. By Diana, by Corwenna, by all that is holly and righteous, come back!”

“Ow!” The voice coincided with a sudden shooting pain in his backside. Hang on a second, the dead weren’t supposed to have sore butts. “Ow!” he repeated. It felt like a little fire devil was stabbing him in the nether regions with a pitchfork.

“Praise the Mother! You’re alive!”

Ark recognized the voice. He groaned in pain as he finally managed to push open his eyelids. A familiar figure filled his vision. “Yes. I am. I think,” he finally muttered.

“But where did you come from? I heard a crash that sounded like the kirk was under attack and then something landed on the floor.”

“Uh. Warden Goodwoody. That something was … me.” Ark looked up and could see the hole in the roof that was his point of entry. But that didn’t explain why he was still breathing.

“Oh!” she said, her fingers feeling around Ark’s body. “Can you move?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that surviving the fall might mean broken bones. He quickly flexed his arms and legs. “I think I’m all right.”