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August 8 - August 18, 2016
the center of the channel, the water still flowed freely, but fingers of ice stretched out from the bank, like they were trying to close around someone’s throat.
Arrows whispered down like a quiet, deadly rain. There was something horrible about them, lacking the bluff honesty of a musket’s flash and report. They insinuated themselves, bringing death on the sly, like assassins.
What is it like in there? When he pictured Janus� mind, it was something sharp and cold, an endless machine made of ice. Gears and wheels and pendulums with edges like razors, sweeping back and forth in terrifying, ordered precision. Now he imagined fire raging unchecked, melting the pistons and the shafts, bringing the machine to a rattling, screeching halt.
