She's scrabbling, not quite hand over fist but near enough to it that the idea of drawing another bolt, pausing to set and swing the crossbow about to take aim feels disastrous. Every instinct screams to ignore that, to let Ellis take what he's given so she might reach that wall and jump across it. The momentary safety of that cover would give her plenty of time to be selective.

But it would be a shame to have to haul two corpses back, and she cannot abide by the prospect of having to share the carriage with Ellis' body presuming this one will take up the entirety of the luggage rack. So halfway to cover, Fitcher veers hard to the left. She twists as she goes, another bolt set as she throws herself sideways.

This bolt has no spark. It cuts the air with no fanfare at all. But when it strikes the writhing creature, the beast shudders as if it's hit some barrier. The blood pouring from it seems not to have slowed it at all, but the white fletched blessed bolt buried in its side sends it staggering up the hillside under Ellis' weight.

"It's a curse! It's--" A sudden, horrible certainty grips her.

"Damn." And for good measure as she makes for the church yard: "Damn, damn, damn. It's not Bradshaw! It's a spirit! A summon of some kind!" She sees it before she even clears the wall: the body of the sorcerer Bradshaw sprawled face down with a crossbow bolt in his throat.

"And now it has no master."