And then, a violet light spears down from above. With a flash and a whirl of blue fabric, Jaruna materializes, somersaulting straight into the sorcerer’s knees.
The sorcerer goes down. His staff goes spinning across the floor—and stops right in front of Gil’s face.
Gil grabs the staff and pulls himself up to his feet.
Jaruna is already on his knees, arrow nocked. But the sorcerer wheels around and grabs Jaruna’s weapon. The arrow releases obliquely and thwips right past Gil’s face as the sorcerer wrenches the bow out of the mystic’s hand and tosses it aside.
Now both mystic and sorcerer grapple on their knees.
Jaruna is younger and nearly 100 pounds lighter, wearing only a cloth robe and turban. The sorcerer is clad in pearlstone gauntlets, greaves, breastplate and helmet. He cracks Jaruna across the face with the back of his guantlet, sending the mystic sailing backwards.
Dumbly, Gil looks at the staff in his own hands. It’s as tall as he is.
Her voice shocks him out his stupor—at the same moment, the sorcerer turns, still kneeling, and meets Gil’s eyes.
Gil hefts the staff like a club. He swings it as hard as he can at the sorcerer’s head.
