As much as I wanted to explain to Jaelin that, where I grew up, it gets dark for about twelve hours out of every twenty-four, I decided it was best to get to work. As I’d discovered firsthand after my first postmortem trip home, so much could go wrong while I was away on business. So rather than discuss temperature fluctuations in my hometown, I instead enlisted her help dumping the entire crate of weapons into the lake.
We let them soak for about two seconds.
Then we pulled the crate back out of the water. “Let’s go,” I said. I gripped the crate, grabbed her hand, and sent us hurtling back down to Hell.
I was aiming to arrive at a safe distance far behind General Gavsot’s lines. I’d succeeded in landing precisely where I’d wanted to, but we were much closer to the battle front than I’d anticipated. Gavsot’s forces seemed to be losing ground with more and more speed. I could see that a swath of the rocky plains behind Halkkor’s army were littered with demon corpses. Halkkor’s following had originally been a small fraction of the demon army, but now it was easy to see that Gavsot was outnumbered. The situation was dire at best.
“This had better fucking work or we don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell,” I grumbled apprehensively. Jaelin simply nodded. “Gus would’ve gotten a kick out of that,” I added pointlessly. “Here goes.”
I took a deep breath and teleported over to Gavsot, who appeared to be missing a large chunk of his left shoulder, which sported a ragged, bloody hole. Even despite his injuries, however, Gavsot refused to lead from behind and remained one of the most dangerous forces on the battlefield—except, of course, for every member of the opposing army. I gripped his good shoulder and teleported us back a few feet so we could talk without the immediate threat of death.
He looked upon me as a savior and panted, “Thank God you are here!”
That was kind of weird.