January 3, 2001

Amurra, perched on a stone outcrop, blew on her hands. The late frost was sinking into everyone's bones. "I still can't believe they managed to defeat the Hopeslayer. A demon of this world, thousands of years old, and more powerful than Asheron! It is truly a testament to the human spirit, isn't it Gideon?"

Gideon looked up from fletching quarrels. Can she not see that I'm busy? One of us must have a clue as to what's going on around. These mountains are dangerous! "Yes, sure. Human spirit. Testament. Huzzah for the war mages. Why don't you stop talking and hand me that letter MacNiall gave us?"

Amurra glowered at him, but dug in her pack until she found it. Eyes narrowed, she walked over and handed him the letter with testy deliberation.

Gideon perused it while packing his gear. He was curious about what MacNiall would have to say to his cousin.

"Look Gideon," Amurra said crossly, "I'm tired of you treating me like some second-rate vagabond. I know what I'm doing! Even the Zharalim respect me more than you do."

Gideon frowned. How am I supposed to concentrate with her prattling on like this? He turned to her, impatient--

--and saw the Iron Golem charging from behind. An old and scathing Aluvian curse fell stillborn in his mouth. "Golem!" he simply yelped instead, and scrambled for his crossbow.

Still scowling, Amurra turned around as Gideon fumbled to load a barbed quarrel he'd paid for through the nose. Yet instead of backing away from the Golem, she began to cast, an odd purplish glow manifesting between her fingers. Titanic gouts of acid surged from her hands, reducing the Golem to its base components.

"Bet you won't treat me like a sidekick now," she proudly chirped.

Bemused, Gideon nodded, wondering from where the Iron Golem had come.