One error in judgment and it was over; a shard had pierced cleanly through. He collapsed, blood pouring from his throat, soaking the white finery under his duster, turning the embroidered blue helix a sinister plum. His eyes strained to stay open. His arm, still grasping his revolver, folded across his chest. The black cloaked sorcerer approached; he did not laugh, did not gloat.
He knelt over Steven’s fading body, “Would you return whence you came, Cavalier?”
Steven managed an affirmative reply, struggling even for such. The sorcerer nodded began conducting a gate. Argen had to know how it ended.
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