Maquille quickly averted his gaze. The sheer drop off the side of the narrow mountain trail was more than little frightening. He focused on the path in front of him, trying to walk in Damian’s footsteps. The soft snow made it easy to follow the footsteps, but it also made the going treacherous. Ahead of him, Damian pushed the long stick he’d picked up onto the wrong piece of track and set stones and snow falling downwards. The group had long moved on before the stones and snow thudded to a rest far below.

Damian called back to him, but it was difficult to hear anything in the cold, rarefied air with the wind howling around them. The mage was about to call out when he saw what had attracted the fighter’s attention. Someone was standing on the path ahead of them, as if waiting for them. Maquille couldn’t make out any features under the figure’s heavy clothing, but Damian was rushing forward excitedly, so Maquille continued after him.

“Durzak!” Damian shouted at the orc.

The orc leant forward to shout back into the fighter’s ear, “I thought they send you this way! Come. Trap is not far.”

Durzak led the group further along the narrow path and, true to his word, they soon arrived at the trap that Denas had told them of. The orc was standing uncomfortably close to the edge of the path, looking downwards. Suddenly he pointed. “There,” he said. “Undead coming. We must work quickly.”

Maquille turned away from the orc and began to examine the trap. It was an elaborate contraption, consisting of planks held together by many ropes and holding about two dozen large boulders. Its purpose was fairly obvious and unimaginative, but the mage couldn’t help but wonder how its builders had managed. His thoughts were interrupted when Gerome shoved a dagger into his hand. “Hurry up, Books.”

Maquille joined the others who were already struggling desperately to saw through the ropes that held the structure in place. There seemed to be far too many ropes to cut and the undead army was getting closer and closer.

As Maquille cut through yet another rope, the ends flew apart. One swung dangerously past his face. Distracted, he lost his balance. He looked downwards, knowing that he was about to fall a long way down. Below, he saw that the undead army had already begun to pass beneath. Something gripped his arm. He looked upwards to see the orc’s face staring at him. Then the grip tightened as the orc pulled him upwards, putting him back on his feet. The orc pointed towards the boulders, “Rocks must fall, not you.”

A loud, groaning sound cut over the last of the orc’s words and everyone watched the trap expectantly. One of the boulders moved ever so slightly. “Get back! Get back,” Damian cried, although the words could barely be heard above the wind. As everyone retreated to towards the back of the path, the wooden planks in front of the boulders gave way, splintering into pieces. The boulders began to fall, gaining momentum as they went. “We did it!” Gerome cried cheerfully.

As the boulders fell, they dragged large amounts of dirt with them. Portions of the mountainside beneath began to fall with the boulders. Millions of tons of dirt and rock plummeted towards the army beneath.

The ground beneath the four began to shudder. Cracks started to form in the path. “Run for it!” Gerome shouted at the others as he realised what was happening, but Maquille stood frozen to the spot. Damian grabbed his arm as he passed and Maquille joined the others as they fled for safety. Moments later, the path behind them fell away, joining the rest of the dirt that was tumbling downwards.

It was a while before they stopped running. They took large gulps of the thin air as they tried to regain their breaths and watched as the air misted when they exhaled. Eventually, Gerome looked around, taking stock of their position. “We ran the wrong way,” he complained.

Damian cast his gaze down the path. “Let’s head back then.”

“Wait,” Maquille gasped. “Just a little bit longer.”

Damian agreed. He sat down on the path, resting his back against the mountainside. Everyone was silent, lost in their own thoughts.

“The orcs knew about the trap,” Damian suddenly burst out.

“Yes,” Durzak agreed.

“Then why did they leave it?” Damian continued with his line of thought.

“There were other paths for us to take. We left trap for this very purpose.”

“You knew the undead would come.”

“We knew they would return. But there will be more. Many more.”

“Then the scroll is correct?” Damian asked. Durzak didn’t answer. It wasn’t really a question.

“I am ready to head back,” Maquille informed the others. “I do not wish to spend a moment longer than I have to in this weather.”

They all dragged themselves back to their feet and headed carefully back the way they had come. Maquille wondered to himself how no one had fallen from the path during their mad dash, but he kept the thought to himself, raising a hand to his heart to keep any evil away. He quickly dropped his hand. It was a silly superstition.

Ahead of him, Damian and the orc had come to a halt. Maquille soon saw why. A large section of the path ahead of them had fallen away and it was now impossible to reach the other side. Disappointed, the mage looked down. The rocks and dirt lay far below, having decimated most of the undead army. He comforted himself in the knowledge that only a small part of the invading army would ever reach Mallowford.

Damian turned around. “Where does this trail lead?” he asked of the orc.

“Only into the Desolation.”