three paces ahead, rising out of the ground fog as though it were struggling to its hands and knees. The Thrasson saw no sign of either bariaur or tiefling until the beast roared and raised its arm.
Jayk was clinging to its wrist, her face buried deep in its tangled fur. The monster bellowed sharply, then snapped its hand toward the wall. When the hairy arm reached the end of its arc, the tiefling seemed to hang on the creature's wrist for just an instant before coming loose and slamming into the hot iron wall.
The Amnesian Hero reached the monster and brought his sword down on the hairy arm that had just flung off Jayk. So tough was the beast's flesh that even that star-forged blade of his barely sliced its sinews; had the blow not landed exactly in the joint, the limb would have been saved. As it was, the Thrasson's strike, well-placed as always, cleaved off the great arm at the shoulder.
No geysers of red blood sprayed from the wound. The creature did not bellow in anguish or collapse in shock. Instead, a substance like black sap oozed from the wound, and the monster twisted around to look at its attacker. The Thrasson raised his sword and saw a gray blur arcing at him out of the fog. He pivoted into the blow, shielding himself behind his shoulder.
The strike landed full on his pauldron, slamming the Amnesian Hero into the creature's hip with such force that, had he not taken the blow on god-forged bronze, he would surely have perished. The Thrasson merely groaned, then, finding himself pinned against the monster, swung at its exposed midsection.
Again, his star-forged blade bit deep, but not deep enough to slice the great creature in half. The beast slammed a boulder-sized fist into the Thrasson's shoulder pauldron, with no more effect than before.
The Amnesian Hero tried to clump forward to attack again, only to discover himself stuck to the monster's side. He attempted to jerk his sword back and found it caught fast in the beast's black-oozing belly wound.
The creature opened its hand, extending a long yellow talon at the end of each Finger. Had the Amnesian Hero not stared into the eyes of death a dozen times before – and sometimes more closely than this – he might have panicked or despaired. But he well knew that salvation often comes at that last instant, when the vicious attacker, sensing victory, grows reckless and moves in for the kill too quickly.
As the monster reached for him, the Thrasson switched his grip and shoved the hilt of his sword forward. The blade pivoted on the edge of the wound, driving the tip deep into the creature's belly.
The Amnesian Hero did not hear the monster's bellow in his ears; he felt it in his shuddering sword. He grasped the hilt with all his strength, then hunched down between his shoulder pauldrons and tried not to scream as the beast's claws closed around his abdomen.
With a sound like tearing sailcloth, the monster ripped the Thrasson away from its hip. The Amnesian Hero felt his sword slipping from his grasp and redoubled his efforts to keep hold of the hilt. For a moment, he seemed stuck, then, with a long, sticky slurp, the blade came free.
The Amnesian Hero found himself sailing backward through the hail and realized that whether he hit the wall or the ground, the amphora would break his fall. He flung his feet up over his head, turning a half-somersault in the air, then smashed face first into the hot iron wall. The searing pain came an instant before the aching agony, and both came before he fell headfirst to the ground.
As he landed in a crumpled heap, the Thrasson managed to twist onto his side and keep his full weight from landing on the amphora. Nevertheless, he heard the tiny rasp of the cracked neck's two halves grating against each other. He could not tell whether his skin hurt more from its brief contact with the scorching iron or his bones ached more from the impact, but there was no time to contemplate the matter.
The Amnesian Hero scrambled to his feet, then spun toward the center of the passage to see Silverwind trotting up to him. The bariaur held Tessali's groaning Figure in his arms. The elf's cloak was shredded and bloody. Though one knee was bent at an impossible angle and his eyes were glazed with pain, he remained conscious and alert.
'By my name, I am glad I imagined you!' Silverwind exclaimed, stopping at the Thrasson's side. 'All the same, I wish it hadn't been at the other end of my golden thread.'
'My golden thread.' The Amnesian Hero stepped around the bariaur, peering through the hailstorm in an unsuccessful attempt to locate the monster of the labyrinth. 'What happened to the beast?'
Silverwind grinned proudly. 'I imagined it out of existence.'
'I suspect it will be harder to destroy than that.' The Thrasson glanced along the wall, looking for Jayk. 'Did you see what became of the tiefling?'
'Zoombee, I am here.'
The Amnesian Hero turned to see Jayk a short distance away, rising out of the fog and holding her temples with both fingers. Her pupils were round and her fangs folded out of sight. The tiefling's shadowy complexion made it difficult to look for injury, but aside from her furrowed brow, the Thrasson saw no outward sign of harm.
'Are you hurt, Jayk?' asked the Amnesian Hero.
'My head, she feels like a shattered egg.'
'But can you run?' asked Silverwind.
'I had thought I was advancing to the One Death,' Jayk answered. 'But I am not so lucky. I can mn, as long as I can do it gently.'
'Then I suggest we be on our way.' The bariaur nodded toward the intersection. 'I don't have much control over my dark self, I fear. It has a way of reasserting itself at the worst times.' Ash Winds
Twining thread about his wrist as he hobbled along, the Amnesian Hero followed Silverwind back toward the intersection where they had met just a few minutes earlier. Despite the chance that the monster, wounded and furious, would be coming after them, the Thrasson had no intention of leaving a loose end of thread lying about the foggy maze; as one of his few connections to the past, the golden strand was far too precious for such carelessness.
After the tumult of battle, the roaring hail seemed almost quiet in his ears. The aching in his bones was already subsiding, but his seared, chest still burned where it had touched the hot iron walls. The air seemed more scorching than ever. No number of foul-tasting hailstones could quench his thirst, and his parched throat felt ready to swell shut. He uttered a silent prayer to Hermes, begging the god of journeys to help the old bariaur retrace his steps quickly; if they did not escape the labyrinth soon, the Thrasson would perish of thirst.
