Losian stopped at the mouth of the alley. His skin prickled with the sense of magic coiling deep within the darkness in front of him. The wind swirled the dust around his ankles bringing with it smells, making him wonder, not for the first time, how anyone could live in this section of Agen. His smile twisted. He hated living in any section of Agen. It all smelled, reeked really, of dirt, shit, decay and corruption. Corruption smelt the worst.

“Do you think this is a good idea? Gruthwin thinks that a mage might be involved,” Notir whispered from behind Losian.

Losian rolled his eyes. “Gruthwin ‘thinks’ a mage is involved? He doesn’t know,” Losian whispered harshly. “What do you want me to do, go back to the Dutyhame? Sorry Captain, we think there’s a mage so we came back,” he replied so softly that he wasn’t sure that Notir even heard him. Losian pushed his coat back so he could get at his hip knife more easily. He let his throwing knife drop into his hand. Notir might be a pain in the arse but he was right to be cautious. He heard Gruthwin move up to stand beside him.

“There’s definitely a mage in there,” Gruthwin murmured. “Feels strong. Notir may be right.”

Losian opened his mouth and took a deep breath. The air, heavy and rank with the smell of rotting garbage, coated his tongue and throat. He wanted to gag but he shut his mouth and swallowed hard. Beneath the smell of decay was another oily smell; magic freshly cast. “Strong or not, we have to see,” Losian said. His words barely carried beyond the two of them.

Losian could tell that Gruthwin was as reluctant as Notir but they had worked together long enough for him to know what was what. He held up three fingers. The others would know they were going in on the count of three. The first finger curled in. That should give Gruthwin enough time to set up a defence spell. Losian curled the second finger. The problem with defence spells is that they were tailored more to the attack spell and you couldn’t choose the best one until you were attacked. The last finger curled down just as Losian noted Gruthwin’s fingers start to flick through a pattern for a spell.

Losian got three steps into the darkness of the alley when the walls on either side lit up with a bolt of magic that slid sideways off the shield Gruthwin had thrown up in front of him. The magic didn’t feel familiar. It bounced and ricocheted around him. He walked steadily down the alley straining his eyes. The mage was still cloaked in darkness, just off to the left. He couldn’t see but he could feel him. Could feel the magic building.

“Get down,” Losian shouted throwing himself to the left just as another bolt passed him, his hair feeling singed. There was a scream from behind him as the shield disintegrated. He snapped his throwing dagger towards where he felt the core of the magic was, and rolled to his left. In the darkness he couldn’t see where to aim. His dagger disappeared but no body toppled. Another bolt incinerated the trash where he had been. “Gruthwin!” he yelled.

A flash of light flew from the mouth of the alley towards the murk but splashed harmlessly against the darkness. A retaliatory strike arrowed towards the mouth of the alley. Losian hoped that Gruthwin had avoided it. There was no sound which could be because he was dead or was preparing another strike. Losian rose to a crouch and searched the alley for something he could use. His knives would be useless but maybe his own magic, puny as it was, could help, if only to distract the mage until Gruthwin could figure out what spell to use. He searched for something green. There was so little that was green in this barren city. There. He could feel the thin tendril of a plant, a scraggly weed that climbed over everything, clinging to walls, trying to reach any light. A survivor and found everywhere. He urged it to twine around the ankle of the mage. Magic had to know what it was fighting. The mage wouldn’t expect a plant to be a weapon. Losian urged it to anchor itself tightly. If he yanked the mage’s feet out from underneath him, maybe he’d hit his head. Maybe it would give Gruthwin enough time to come up with a counter spell.

Losian poured his strength into the plant and his head began to pound. He could feel the mage trying to shake the plant away from his ankle. He couldn’t just blast it away, not if he wanted to keep his foot. The pain in his head was intensifying. “Gruthwin, come on man, do something,” he muttered hanging on with a thread. He couldn’t see anymore and his hearing was beginning to fade.

“That’s it, a thorn would be nice,” a voice murmured in his ear, a woman’s voice”

A thorn? A thorn. He clung to that. He sharpened a leaf.

“Let me help,” the voice whispered.

Losian wavered. Help? who could help him? He was damaged, brain damaged, no one could help him. The pain fogged his mind, reminded him of what he couldn’t do. “Help?” he croaked. A question, or he thought it was a question but all of sudden the pain was less, not gone. He felt someone rummaging through his mind like he would ruffle pages in a book. There was a soft laugh, then a frown. How could he hear a frown?

*What happened here?*

There was a sharp pain, hard, his head was going to explode, his eyes watered and he heard someone screaming. Then it stopped. The pounding headache seemed easy compared to that. He managed to open his eyes to slits but his sight wavered so much that he was nauseous and he shut his eyes.

*Push the thorn into his ankle. That’s right. Now all you have to,* the voice paused. *Someone should be hung. Watch.*

How could he watch with his head in a vice? But he felt what she did. Somehow, just below his magic she slid her’s, following his magic through the plant, barely detected by him and into the thorn. He could feel the mage reaching down to pull the thorn out of his ankle and the blood, the single drop of blood. He could feel her satisfaction as she slid something into the tiny wound. What? A bubble of air? What the hell?

The mage threw another of those bolts meant to torch everything in its path. He felt the power flowing inexorably towards him. His brother would be pleased at his death. He could almost feel his brother’s satisfaction. The magic hit and passed him by. A second and third bolt followed. The air in the alley was becoming hot, hard to breathe. His poor little plant had started to shrivel from the heat. He pulled back from it, barely conscious of what he did. He didn’t need to feel its death, his own would be enough. Another bolt followed. Didn’t this mage have anything else in his arsenal? Maybe a giant fist that would slam down on him, flatten him and put him out of his misery. He didn’t know how long he tottered there. He could care less if he lived or died. Finally he could feel the blackness coming. He reached out and fell into it, smelling lilacs as he went.