Yesterday the world-ending stone known as the Saghred had been stolen. I called it several other names not repeatable in public. The thing had attached itself to me and magnified my magic; and even now that it was thousands of miles away, we were still bonded. The goblin who had ordered it stolen needed me dead to break that bond and transfer control of the rock and all of its power to himself. To stand a snowball’s chance in Hell (excuse me, Tam’s home) of destroying the rock, I needed to stay very much alive.

Hence my dilemma—save the world or die a slow and painful death. Though I couldn’t exactly call my situation a dilemma. A dilemma implied you had a choice. If it was up to me, somebody else could save the world; I’d just rather keep breathing. However, if I managed by some major miracle to do both, I wanted to be properly dressed for it. Head-to-toe steel surrounded by a platoon of Conclave Guardians should do the trick. Some people would call that paranoid; I called it barely adequate accessorizing.

But I wouldn’t have a platoon, and head-to-toe steel would make running away more of a challenge than I was up for. I was armored, both leather and steel, enough for protection, but without impeding any sudden need to retreat. Less than a dozen of us would be sneaking into Regor, stealing the Saghred, destroying it in a way that would hopefully not do the same to me, and getting back to Mid with the same pieces and parts that we left with.

A handful of us against the might of the goblin king, the goblin army, and probably some absurdly huge demons who owed them all favors. Oh yeah, and one soul-hungry rock.

And how could I forget an all-powerful, fledgling goblin demigod by the name of Sarad Nukpana?

Survival would take a miracle.

Especially since I didn’t have a lick of magic to my name.