The beam they would leap from was twelve feet long and aligned so that it pointed directly at Sharrow-Met’s statue. Shamil found himself grateful for this as it gave his eyes something to fix on instead of straying continually to the ground far below. It was a clear day, and the space between summit and earth was for once free of clouds, allowing an uninterrupted view of what awaited him. He had heard that it was common for those who found themselves falling from great heights to expire out of fright before ever hitting the bottom and harboured a fervent if doubtful hope that it might be true.
Before addressing the gathered sentinels, Morgath Durnholm walked to the end of the beam with as confident a stride as if he were mere inches from the ground. When he spoke, it was in a booming voic
