Beyond the arch, in a colonnaded gallery built as a killing ground, waited the honor guard of the high clans: three thousand veterans in rune-dense blacksteel, tower shields interlocked rank behind rank into the dark, twin ballista platforms flanking the far end.
Their commander had watched the tide of magma die at the threshold, and his voice rang out in triumph.
"You see that, lads?! The old stones hold! He can't cast in here!" A blade swept the length of the gallery. "He's one man with a saber! Loose! Cut him down!"
Quinlan, two steps past the threshold, had stopped.
"Ah," said the Primordial Villain. "I forgot."
He had not called Kaelira and Black Fang.
The first ballista bolt caught him square in the chest while his mouth was still open.
The crew had been laying that shot since his boot crossed the line, and it arrived as the whole argument of dwarven siegecraft in one length of blacksteel.
