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“Whoever’s closest,” you whisper back. “The only way out is through.”
Tarquin flashes you two thumbs up; Mae bites her lip, but nods, because no matter how you approach it, there are probably a dozen mages to each one of you.
You make eye contact with Ashur as best you can in the dim light. On his signal, you descend on the crowd in the chamber—hacking, slashing, and casting in every direction you can. You stay low, hoping to duck most of the flying spells while taking down as many of the mages as you can.
On your right, a fireball sizzles past you, catching your elbow and leaving an unpleasant burn behind. Not too far away, Tarquin yelps in wordless anger as another flies past his head, frying his braid and leaving singed ends behind. In spite of those casualties, though, when the battle ends, you’re all still standing.
That is, until you notice Ashur’s slight stagger.
Tarquin’s at his side in seconds. “What happened?” he demands, taking Ashur’s arm across his shoulders to support him.
Ashur’s quiet for a moment. “One of the darkspawn prisoners gave me a paper cut,” he admits.