Haselrig could not see his own hand infront of his face and the spluttering calls that must have been Lilith were as indistinct as shouts heard underwater. “Quick,” he coughed. “While no-one can see.” He reached out and in the black mist of dust he found a bony hand and held it, pulled it down to the far handle on the wooden box which he knew was by his feet. “Hold this.” She must have understood for there was a tug of her being stirred to motion as he dragged the box behind him and headed for the breach. There was heat about them, the embers of burnt timbers not entirely extinguished by the cloud of dust. There were other shouts, a commotion to left and right, clearer now with the dust beginning to part settle, part evaporate, once the magic that bound it had been destroyed. “Quickly,” Haselrig re-iterated as they crossed the wreckage of burnt scaffolding. He stumbled into the remnants of the wall, the jagged three foot height of set stone and foundation blocks on which the rest of the curtain wall had been assembled. This material had won its rigid permanence at the last full moon; the thinning stone dust he was inhaling had missed its chance by nearly a full week.
What do You think about Master Of The Planes (Book 3)?
