He would have to climb down.
Bartolo’s feet scrabbled at empty air as he descended for a time without being able to see what lay below him. His heart beat loudly in his ears as blood coursed through his limbs. Finally his left foot found a ridge in the rock, and he wedged it in tight. Moving slowly and fighting the fatigue in his limbs, he shifted down inch by inch, and then Bartolo could look down, though he was still a hundred feet away.
His heart hammered as he saw a gray-robed necromancer and a dozen revenants waiting in ambush.
Bartolo closed his eyes. He would be sending recruits—well trained but hardly battle hardened—against revenants. They were outnumbered two to one. The lads didn’t even have armor.
He climbed back up and shifted again along the mountain; it was easier when he could see where he was climbing. His urgency spurred him on, but he was forced to take a different route on his return journey, climbing higher still, ascending the steep face until he was precariously perched hundreds of feet above solid ground.
Bartolo clutched at a rock but felt it fall away from his hands. He winced at the clatter as more stone fell, and then he heard a rumble above his head.
A huge boulder bounced along, gathering speed as it fell. Bartolo looked frantically for somewhere to lunge to, but he couldn’t find any handholds, and in a heartbeat the boulder would smash into his head, crushing his skull and throwing him from the cliff face to plummet to his death.
As Bartolo cringed, awaiting the inevitable, he heard a howling wind.
Without warning a great gust shoved him hard up against the mountain, and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to.
The sound of the crashing boulder as it rolled along the stone suddenly stopped. Bartolo looked around him in amazement, wondering where it was; he hadn’t seen or heard the huge stone fall.
Glancing up, he saw one of the strangest sights of his life.
The boulder hovered in the air, directly above his head. Wind howled in his ears, an eerie gust unlike any force of nature. The boulder . . . moved. It traveled horizontally along the cliff, though Bartolo knew the movement was impossible, and when it was a safe distance from Bartolo, the stone once more dropped and resumed its crashing charge.
The wind fell away, and Bartolo was once more able to move his limbs.
Knowing the sound of the boulder would disturb the revenants, Bartolo lunged for another outcrop and grabbed hold to pull his body to a safer position. He began to make his way down a cleft, heading back toward the waiting recruits, and he’d soon descended the mountain face, to once more reach the winding trail.
Dorian waited with the recruits, their backs to a large boulder as they drank water and rested in the shade. Bartolo decided against mentioning his experience with the boulder; he could hardly believe it himself.
Dorian rose as Bartolo approached, and as the two men put their heads together, Bartolo thanked the wisdom that had led them to elevate the young man.
“Bad news,” Bartolo said. He shook his head; the term didn’t do their plight justice.
“What is it? Ambush? How many?”
“Revenants,” Bartolo said.
Dorian’s eyes widened and he blanched. “How?”
“I don’t know how, but they’re here. Come on. I need to talk to all the lads.”
Bartolo crouched down on his haunches as he scanned each face in turn. Timo regarded him with intelligent eyes. Martin looked strong and sturdy, ready to face anything.
“Listen,” Bartolo said. “The tower in the pass is gone. Unless we can raise it again, our signal to the lands in the south won’t get through. A force waits in ambush. I must fight, and Dorian will help me, but it’s time for the rest of you to go home.”
“Go home?” Martin said. “No, we’re here to help you.”
“No.” Bartolo shook his head. “You can’t. There are a dozen revenants waiting in ambush. The seven of us . . . well . . . we’re outnumbered. Our force isn’t enough.”
“Then how do you plan to restore the tower?” Timo said.
“I’m going to fight,” Bartolo said.
“But I thought you said there are too many of them?” Timo pressed.
“There are,” Dorian said, looking at Bartolo. “But we’re going to try anyway.”
“Then I’m trying too,” Martin said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Me too.”
“So am I.”
“I’m not going home now.”
“We won’t leave you.”