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The wind blew Sturm over the table, but he managed to
thrust an arm through the funnel hole. He held on dearly as
the tempest howled around him. Retorts and alembics from
the spirit still toppled over and were blown away. The
Kernaffi priests collapsed in a heap, only to be torn from
each other by the brutal wind. One by one they were swept
away, the last pair clinging together even as they were
carried off.
Sturm cried out in pain as the wind tore at him. He
thought his arm would snap off at the shoulder, but he was
able to get a relieving grip with his free hand. The table
shifted and turned. Sturm pressed his face to the copper top.
Dust scoured the roof, stinging the boy's exposed flesh. Just
when it seemed he could endure no more, the wild fury
abated.
He clung fiercely to the table, the instrument of death
that had preserved his life. He heard a faint call for help.
Gingerly, Sturm removed his aching arm from the funnel
hole. The arm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.
The cry came again: "Help me, help . . ." Sturm shaded
his eyes and looked around. He was alone on the roof.
Everything, including Soren's body, was gone.
Radiz, his plume bent at an angle and his golden armor
dented, hobbled up the steps
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