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Banedon lowers his staff, the trace of a wry smile on his pain-racked face. ‘Alas, I was too slow to protect myself, Lone Wolf,’ he says, glancing at his arm. You kneel at his side and free the spear that pins him to the floor. The wound is serious; hastily you staunch the bleeding with strips of cloth torn from his dark blue robes. You recognize the robes, for they are the attire of a Journeymaster. It seems that young Banedon has achieved distinction among his brother magicians since last you met.
‘It appears that we are fated to meet in their company,’ he says, still watching the Kraan-riders anxiously. ‘Help me to my feet, we must escape before they drag us from the sky.’
You support the magician as he grasps the ship’s helm—a radiant crystal sphere with hundreds of glowing facets set on a slim silver rod. No sooner has his hand closed around the crystal than there is a tremendous explosion.
