Gil stum­bles to the ground. The fall knocks the wind out of him.

He tries to push him­self up, con­fused as to how he even fell in the first place. But he can’t. His body feels impos­si­bly heavy.

Gil tries to turn his head to see what’s hap­pen­ing. But his cheek is pulled into the grainy sand. Kiddu, Kripa and Ayan lay in front of him, each sprawled help­lessly on the ground.

A heavy, puls­ing hum fills the air: wohm-wohm-wohm.

The hum­ming gets louder. So does the sound of clank­ing armor.

Some­thing breaks next to his face—a clay can­is­ter. Kripa must have tried throw­ing it at the approach­ing sol­diers. The jar’s nox­ious con­tents spill out right next to Gil’s nose. He thinks he’s going to throw up.

Satrap Nimrod’s mag­ni­fied voice is so loud that Gil’s skele­ton quiv­ers.

The satrap pauses. Gil can hear his helmet’s face­plate slid­ing up.

Light­ning erupts from Kiddu’s hand, shak­ing the satrap’s pearlstone-plated body like a rat­tle.

The satrap drops his glow­ing scepter and falls to the ground, spas­ming, vomit spray­ing from his hel­met face­plate. In the same instant, the gravitic magic hold­ing Gil fast to the ground breaks. He can move again.

She jumps up to her feet. In her hand she holds a bolt-wand.

Nimrod’s hoplites, dis­tracted for a moment by their now-unconscious com­man­der, start to advance. They hold their spears high, ready to throw.

Kripa jumps up and raises his club. Kiddu holds her lit­tle wand out men­ac­ingly, even though the astrate gem at the tip has gone dark.

A hoplite brings his arm back to throw his spear.

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