5. River Crossing
“An adventure begins when the journey begins. Characters need not reach the end of their quest before they encounter interesting events.”
—The Book of Rules
Delrael was amazed at how much effort it took to set out with an entire army. On other quests, he and his companions had simply packed up and departed at dawn. Now, though, trainees asked him thousands of questions, they argued among themselves on how do the same tasks, they packed and repacked, studied maps, and worked themselves into a mixture of excitement and dread. If they delayed much longer, that anxiety and aggression would backfire.
Delrael paced up and down, tired and hungry because he had not found enough time to sleep or take meals. He hated to think of so many things at once, so many meaningless details—he wanted to set off and do something. Couldn’t they take care of administrative squabbles along the way? He wasn’t sure he was cut out to be a commander of such a large force.
Yellowed leaves blew through the encampment. The weapon makers had cut down so many of the surrounding trees that debris lay scattered on the hillside, adding dead leaves to those already falling from the end of the season.
Finally, tired of pacing and unable to think of anything else that absolutely had to be done, Delrael whistled and formed up the front ranks, directing them to start off down the quest-path toward the Barrier River. “Enough of this,” he said. “Let’s go!”
A few of the fighters didn’t seem to know whether they were supposed to cheer or not; some did anyway. Delrael stood in his leather armor, listening to the ragged mixture of sounds. The fighters talked to each other and moved about, but they seemed just as happy to be on the move.
Delrael watched them march by, nodding and smiling to any character who met his eyes. His father Drodanis would have been at the front, waving his sword and leading all the fighters. But Delrael’s army would not need a battle commander for a while, and they knew which quest-path to follow.
As the army marched into the forest, Delrael went back to take a last look at his village. In the frosty morning, it stood deserted except for those characters who could not handle the journey, a few old men and women and young children who had come to the Stronghold not to train, but to offer their assistance in the preparations. The open spaces showed the marks of a sprawling encampment, scars from tent stakes, black smears of cooking fires. He saw the broad ash-strewn circle from the central bonfire where they burned their garbage among splintered and knotty wood unsuitable to be made into arrows or other weapons.
Delrael stared at the empty houses, the stripped trees, the Steep Hill on which he could see remnants of the Stronghold defenses and the newly erected training area. He wondered if this was the last time he would ever see his home. Turning his back on that thought, he hurried into the forest to catch up with the rest of the troops. Some commander!, he thought.
As the army journeyed through the morning, Delrael moved among the groups, chatting with characters and maintaining their morale. Jorte, who operated the village gaming hall, and Mostem the baker also kept the trainees talking about their villages and past quests. Vailret helped as well, though he seemed to spend a lot more time with Tareah.
Bryl seemed quiet and withdrawn. Delrael knew how worried he must be with the great responsibility he had undertaken, not to mention the aches in his old bones from the prospect of a prolonged journey. Once the army crossed the Barrier River, Bryl and Vailret would split off on their own quest. Together those two would journey south to Rokanun and secure the Earth Stone.
Delrael wanted to go with them, a reminder of old quests—theirs seemed to be a more enjoyable adventure, especially with all the headaches just to keep his army together. But Delrael was the nominal leader of these fighters, and he had to stay with them. Besides, he could never again go near the city of Sitnalta with its technological fringe, where science worked and magic failed—his left leg was carved of magical kennok wood, and he could use it as well as his real leg. But in Sitnalta, without magic, the leg would refuse to function, perhaps permanently, and Delrael would be a cripple. No, he had to stay with his army.
From their previous expedition to Rokanun, Bryl knew exactly where to find the Earth Stone. But since the two of them would be alone against the hazards of Gamearth, Bryl would also take the Air Stone and the Fire Stone for their protection. Tareah would keep the Water Stone to aid the main army in any skirmishes.
If everything worked out as planned, Vailret and Bryl could hurry back with their prize and join Delrael’s army somewhere in the Spectre Mountains. They could then use the magic in the Stones to fight Siryyk’s horde, or Bryl could transform himself into the Allspirit right there. They hadn’t quite decided that part yet.
Delrael’s fighters traveled over forested-hill, forest, and grassland terrain on their first day. When they bedded down on the edge of another hexagon, Delrael sensed the excitement among the army. That would change as the journey grew longer, but for now they seemed caught up in the adventure. He leaned back against the trunk of a tree, then reached up to touch his fingers to a knob of bark. Sighing, he bent his knees and let his eyes close in a much-appreciated moment of rest.
Siya came by and offered him a blanket, which he waved away. During the previous two days, she had proven herself invaluable, thinking of countless things they had forgotten to do, supplies to be packed, tools, equipment.
Jathen the Tairan muttered a goodnight before trudging off into the shelter of trees, where he would sleep away from the main group. Jathen tossed fitfully in his sleep, in the grip of nightmares, and he chose not to disturb anyone else. From what Delrael himself had seen in Tairé, he could well imagine some of the nightmares that Jathen suffered.…
For three days the army continued through hexagons of forested terrain. Delrael had crossed this landscape before, but never with hundreds of characters marching beside him in a group much too wide for the quest-path. They forged through the trees, spreading out and scouting the area. It seemed more like a carnival than a group of fighters on a quest.
The terrain remained easy, causing no troubles—until they reached the Barrier River on the third day.
The vast river stood before them, rushing past with gray water channeled from the Northern Sea. The quest-path stopped abruptly at the hex-line boundary of the river; it would have continued across the terrain, had it not been submerged by the irresistible wall of water down the length of the map.
The Barrier River looked uncrossable, with its swift current a full hex wide. The fighters stared in expressions of awe and disbelief. Delrael stood on the bank in silence, remembering how he had convinced Sardun to create the river, in exchange for their rescuing his daughter Tareah.
The air felt brisk against Delrael’s cheeks as he rested before he faced the problem of crossing. He heard the ripple of water swirling around the sharp hex-line and listened to the rustle of leaves in tall trees above. He could smell the dampness in the air, the cloying wet stink of all the toppled trees and forest debris decomposing beneath the water.
Some of the exhausted characters knelt on the black line and dipped their hands in the water, splashing it on their faces, rubbing their eyes. Delrael did the same, scrubbing his sweaty, itching head in the river.
He listened to the restless sounds of the other characters, shifting packs, sitting down to rest, tromping into the forest. He heard Siya break out their supplies; Tareah and Vailret helped her distribute them.
Delrael stood up and adjusted the chafing leather armor on his chest, when he heard a crunching sound in the trees. The army stirred off to his left; some of the fighters stood up, others looked around.
A big man came into view riding a tall black horse. Delrael used his fingers to spread dripping hair away from his eyes and forehead; he felt a trickle of water behind his ear. The man on the horse rode through the army, as if looking for someone. Delrael stepped forward and introduced himself.
The stranger snapped to attention, then urged his horse forward. The man was very large and muscular, a full hand taller than Delrael. His blond hair streamed back to his shoulderblades, so pale and fine that it looked white. The black horse showed velvety purple shadows on its hide as the muscles rippled. The hooves bore scuffed iron shoes; its saddle, bridle, and reins looked immaculately cared for, with gleaming silver studs.
The stranger wore black leather armor, and a vest with a badge carved on the right breast, showing a white field with the dark silhouette of a bird of prey, wings spread and claws extended to strike. On his back, the man carried a long bow and a quiver bristling with arrows. At his side hung a two-handed sword, and a dagger poked up from his belt.
Yet with all the weapons and armor and black trappings, the man looked beatific, his face unblemished, his eyebrows perfectly curved and thin. A faint flush showed the chill on his pale skin.
“My greetings, Delrael. I’ve heard of your army and your call to arms. My name is Corim. As a representative of the Black Falcon troops, I crossed the river and came to your Stronghold to exchange information and to offer our services. But the Stronghold was in ruins, and some of the characters there told me you had already departed. So I rode hard in the direction I knew you would be taking.”
Black Falcon troops? Delrael thought. He looked around for Vailret, who would probably be able to explain Corim’s group.
“Black Falcons!” Vailret said in a loud voice to the stranger. “Are you planning to do anything useful? Or are you just here to cause havoc as you have in the past?”
Corim surprised Delrael by ignoring Vailret entirely. Delrael looked to his cousin, but wasn’t sure what to think. Offhand, this man appeared to be an awesome warrior. If Corim had troops of similar fighters, how could Delrael turn down the offer of reinforcements? “What are you talking about, Vailret?”
“The Black Falcons, Del!” Vailret seemed surprised when Delrael gave him only a questioning gaze. Vailret made an exasperated expression, but Tareah spoke in a patient voice.
Delrael felt embarrassed as she tried not to talk down to him.
“The Black Falcons have been here since the Scouring, but at least there’s not many of them. They go around killing any non-human character they find. They band together and use all their strength to wipe out harmless races, like the ylvans or the khelebar.”
Sarcasm laced her voice. “Apparently for all their strength, they’re too frightened to attack anything dangerous like the Slac or the wandering monsters across the map.”
“That is a lie,” Corim said in a flat voice. “The Black Falcon troops strike at any enemies we find. We’ve slaughtered whole regiments of Slac, we’ve defeated dozens of ogres and individual monsters. And yes, we have also struck against the khelebar, who caused great damage to human characters in the past. If you doubt that, your knowledge of the Game is … not accurate.”
Tareah looked ready to blurt out something else, but Corim continued. “When the old Sorcerer race went on their Transition, they gave Gamearth to human characters, the ones formed in their own image. That’s what the Scouring was all about—the enemy character races trying to wipe each other out. Despite our defenses, the Slac nearly succeeded in conquering the entire map. Only by the efforts of the Black Falcon troops, working with other human fighters and the Sentinels, did we turn them back to their mountain fortresses.” Corim stood silent for a moment. His lips were so pale they looked the same color as his skin.
“The map is still infested with threats to human characters. We split no hairs—Gamearth is ours. We have no wish to share it with races that fought against us in the past. They might be peaceful now, but who’s to say they won’t turn against us again? It makes no difference if they’re direct threats such as the Slac, or parasites like the ylvan. They’re equally bad in our eyes.”
He looked at Delrael, then jerked his chin in the direction of Tareah and Vailret. “Who are these people, Delrael?”
Keeping his voice even and his face plain so as not to betray his anger, Delrael nodded to the two of them. “Vailret is my close advisor. Tareah is the daughter of Sardun. She’s one of the most powerful characters left on the map.”
Corim’s eyebrows raised, but he made no comment.
Delrael remembered the gentle but distraught khelebar who had fought so valiantly to save their forest from burning, and the khelebar woman Thilane who had healed his destroyed leg; without her magic of replacing his leg with one made of kennok wood, he would have bled to death. Now, when he disrobed and ran his fingers over the soft, warm surface of the living wood, he could see the grain from the stunted kennok tree—and he could also feel his own touch, he could move his toes, he could do everything with it. He owed his life to the khelebar, whom Corim dismissed as being enemies.
He also thought of Tallin, the tough little forest man they had rescued from Gairoth. Tallin’s entire ylvan village had been numbed by Scartaris, even from a vast distance, which made them easy prey for the ogre. Tallin was a good companion, and a good friend—until the Anteds killed him.
“What is it you’re offering, Corim?” Delrael said.
The Black Falcon rider looked at Delrael’s army, but his face remained expressionless. Delrael thought he detected a hint of scorn, though he saw nothing overt.
“We can offer our help in fighting this monster army marching against Gamearth. Despite what your … advisor and your Sorceress say, the Black Falcon troops are devoted beyond anything else. We have been for generations. The survival of the Game is our foremost concern.”
Delrael stood, feeling inadequate with his dripping hair and unkempt appearance in front of this monolith of a man. He thought for just a moment, then answered.
“You’re welcome to join us. We’d be foolish not to accept the assistance of your troops. But are you going to focus your efforts on fighting the monster horde? That’s the only enemy that should concern us. I forbid you to waste any time, any effort, or any resources on attacking friendly character races.”
Corim scowled down from his horse. Delrael could smell the horse and the leather of the saddle, the hint of sweat on Corim’s uniform. He also noted a sour, rotten smell from the bulging saddle bags, and Delrael didn’t want to know what they carried.
“Sometimes you must trim away small roots before you may topple a large tree,” Corim said, keeping his voice low.
“Sometimes,” Vailret interrupted, “you can get so busy trimming those roots that you don’t see the tree about to fall on you.”
Corim yanked on the reins of his horse. When the Black Falcon rider spoke, he seemed to disregard everything they had said. “I don’t have time to share a meal with you, Delrael. I’ll bring your terms to Annik, our leader. We’ll meet again. Perhaps as allies.”
“I hope so,” Delrael said. He wondered if he was starting to sound more like a true commander.
Corim rode the horse directly between Delrael and where Vailret and Tareah stood. Vailret stepped back, exaggerating his reaction to how close the horse had come. The horse charged through the trees and plunged over the black line into the river.
It sank up to the top of its saddle and began to swim across the current, tossing its head but keeping its gaze on the line of the opposite bank. Corim did not turn back. His blond hair glinted in the sunlight. The current yanked the horse at a diagonal across the river, but the Black Falconrider seemed unconcerned about where they would come to shore.
Delrael turned back around and refused to watch Corim’s receding silhouette against the rushing water. Vailret put his hands on his hips, scowling. “Well, what are we going to do about that, Del?” The other characters were listening.
“We’re not going to do anything about it,” Delrael answered, realizing that his voice had grown testy. “We’ll let them make their move. If they want to fight with us, they can help a lot. But we’ll succeed without them, and I won’t have them in my army if they go slaughtering the khelebar or the ylvans.”
He sighed, then clapped his hands, raising his voice so that the characters would pay attention. “Enough of the show! We’ve got bigger problems to worry about.”
Delrael looked over his shoulder at the river. Corim, small now in the distance, worked his way around a dead tree half-submerged in the current.
“—such as crossing this river.”
Normally, he would have asked Vailret’s help in planning such an operation, but Delrael felt heady with responsibility. He could do it himself. He made it clear in his mind exactly what he wanted to do.
Delrael separated his fighters into different groups for building rafts that would carry them to the opposite bank. He selected teams to scout out nearby trees, others to work at felling them, still others to trim away the main branches and tie the trunks together. The army had enough work to keep busy for several days, but they would cross in a grand procession.
Jathen plunged into his job with enormous stamina, hacking at branches protruding from fallen trunks. His woodworking ax smacked into the wood with the solid sound of a sword connecting one of the practice posts. Chips of bark and sweet white wood sprayed in the air around him. Jathen pulled off his tunic even in the cool air. Dust and dirt smeared his chest, clinging to his sweat. Jathen’s whole world seemed focused on what he was doing, as if to distract him from anything else that might haunt him.
As Delrael watched them fall to their directed tasks, he felt a growing pride—all these scattered fighter characters from villages up and down the map were now mobilized into a real unit, like a Sitnaltan machine where all the pieces worked together.
Delrael’s idea was to construct several rafts the size of barges to haul his fighting force across the water. There, the characters would cover the rafts with brush. If his army was on the run from Siryyk’s horde, if their ambushes and defensive battles failed, they could uncover their rafts and escape down the river, leaving the manticore and all the monsters stranded behind.
As the other characters worked, Tareah wore an atypical scowl. Even in her mended clothes, she still looked beautiful to Delrael, with her long pale hair and the sapphire Water Stone hanging at her neck. He smiled at her, but she only glared at him. He felt crestfallen, wondering what he had done wrong.
Vailret finally spoke with her out of earshot. Tareah said something to him, shaking her head; Vailret looked surprised, rapping his knuckles against his forehead as if to demonstrate his own stupidity. He grabbed her arm, dragging her toward Delrael.
“Del, Tareah’s got—”
“If he wants to ignore my abilities, I’ll let him.” She refused to look at Delrael. “He’s the one paying in sweat and sore muscles, after all.”
He still couldn’t fathom what had upset her. “Tareah, what did I do to make you angry—”
She stood with her hands on her hips. For a moment Delrael saw a reflection of furious Sardun, who had attacked them when they first entered the Ice Palace.
“Why do you keep stopping me from doing anything to help you? I’m one of the most powerful characters on all of Gamearth. You made a point of that to the Black Falcon rider—and yet, when you have to cross this river, why doesn’t it occur to you that I could make an ice bridge with the Water Stone? Would your fighters really rather spend days building rafts by brute force?”
Delrael blinked his eyes in surprise. He felt shocked and stupid. The other characters stood up beside the fallen logs and pressed sweaty hair away from their eyebrows. The forest looked churned up from their efforts; stripped logs lay scattered about.
Delrael felt his cheeks burning. Tareah was right. She could help them cross with a single spell. He always tried to do everything he could to impress her, but in the back of his mind he still remembered her as the little girl who had waited to be rescued on the island of Rokanun, waited for some hero to come because that was how she thought the Game was played.
But she had changed much since then.
The weary characters glared at him, upset that they had done their work for nothing. Jathen stood up, blinking, but impatient: he didn’t seem to mind the work, but just didn’t want to stop.
Delrael stared at the gray, fast-moving river behind them. It looked treacherous even if they were on rafts. He forced himself to meet Tareah’s eyes. “The rafts are a known risk, Tareah,” he said. “And we’ll have them there waiting for our return. Can you be sure your bridge won’t collapse with our army halfway across?”
“If the spell works, it works. You’ll know that as soon as I roll.”
“Even with the Rules breaking?” Vailret said.
Tareah considered the question only long enough to shrug. “If that’s the case, how do you know the rafts will float?”
Delrael knew how long it would take them to complete the rafts and slowly work their way across the current. He could well lose as many characters over the sides.
“Tareah, will you help us cross the river?” he asked.
Looking more relieved than smug, she nodded. “Yes. I will.”
Tareah brushed her cheeks and arms as if preparing herself—her expression looked truly eager to be part of things, to be helping out. Vailret nodded to her in encouragement.
“Get the fighters ready,” Tareah said. Her voice was low and husky. “My father used the Water Stone to maintain the entire Ice Palace, but I don’t want to hold up a bridge any longer than I have to. I’m not quite as confident as he was.”
Delrael called to the other characters. Jathen pulled his tunic on again, tugged the lacings, and stood restless, shuffling his feet. Some fighters dipped their hands in the cold river water, trying to scrub away splinters or chafed skin.
Bryl went beside Tareah. “Need any help?”
She shook her head, then stepped between the trees to stand at the black line at the edge of the Barrier River. Her brown blouse and many-colored skirt had belonged to Delrael’s mother. “Fielle liked this skirt,” Siya had said when she took it out of a storage trunk and gave it to the newly grown Tareah.
Delrael didn’t know what to think about Tareah fitting his mother’s clothes. He rarely thought of his mother any more, not since she had died of a fever years before. Because of that, Delrael’s father had gone into grief-stricken seclusion. He eventually fled the Game entirely, going in search of a legendary Pool of Peace inhabited by the Rulewoman Melanie.
Drodanis had left Delrael to run the Stronghold, without much training and experience. Delrael resented him for that, sometimes—but other times he saw it as a trial by fire that had forced him to grow into a better fighter, a better player in the Game. Drodanis had made no contact with them for years, until he sent a message stick to warn Delrael about the threat of Scartaris. While offering no assistance of his own, he charged Delrael with a quest to find a way to save Gamearth. That message stick had caused Delrael to bring about the Barrier River, to protect them.
And now Tareah gazed at the immense river Sardun had created—she, too, had to live up to the greatness of her father.
Tareah held the gleaming Water Stone in her hands. In silence, Delrael motioned his hands backward, making the other fighter characters step away. He bumped into Vailret’s elbow, startling both of them.
Tareah held her head high, and her pale hair continued to drift back in the river breeze. Delrael remembered her in her little-girl body standing up like a great Sorcerer queen, using the power of the Stones against the dragon.
He heard only the rippling water and the occasional cough and shifting noise of the gathered characters. The army seemed to be holding its breath as Tareah knelt. She rolled the Water Stone on the ground. A smooth sapphire face stared upward into the clear sky, showing a chiseled “4.”
Tareah, staring with half-closed eyes and acting as if she didn’t want to break her concentration, snatched up the sapphire. She planted her feet squarely apart so that her boots dug into the soft mud and rested high on the black hex-line. One of her hands crooked, the fingers moved.
The water of the Barrier River responded, pushing up in a hump and then squeezing forward like clay, frosting and turning solid as it became ice. More water curled up under it, lapping, freezing, and extending the curved surface out.
Tareah moved her other hand, bringing her elbows close to her ribs in a silent pushing gesture. The tongue of ice bucked, widened, and lurched farther out, suspended over the choppy surface of the river.
The magic flowed through Tareah now, and the water churned into froth around the base of the ice bridge. The wide white footpath looped but held firm, rippling and thrusting like someone squeezing dough through a tube.
As the arch rose through the center of the hex-wide river, it began to curve toward the opposite shore. The base in front of Tareah’s spread feet grew thicker and wider. Icicles dribbled down from its sides, growing thicker and plunging into the water as support struts.
Tareah made a coughing sound. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut; her forehead was wrinkled. Delrael wanted to place his hands on her shoulders, to comfort her or to add strength somehow—but he didn’t dare break her concentration and send the ice bridge crumbling into the swirling waters.
The characters began to mutter in appreciation and awe. Jorte, the keeper of the village gaming hall, made an enthusiastic cheer. But Delrael whirled around with a glare and silenced them all.
Tareah clenched both her hands into fists around the Water Stone. She lifted her head up, and it was as if she could see even with her eyes closed. The ribbon of ice fell a hexagon away and struck the opposite shore, completing the link. She relaxed a little. Her shoulders slumped, her fingers remained curled around the sapphire.
The ice continued to thicken and widen as more water flowed up to freeze along the bridge. Its surface became stubbled and rough, with steplike projections on the steepest part of the curve.
Tareah spoke, but kept her face directed across the river. “Send them across. It’ll hold now.
But don’t take any longer than necessary.”
Delrael motioned with his left arm. Some of characters acted uneasy; Delrael climbed up onto the bridge first, in his role as their brave leader, moving at a brisk pace. Vailret followed behind, then Jathen. Bryl came up with Siya, and then the other fighters started to march along.
Delrael hurried. He didn’t know how Tareah would come over herself, but he kept moving. The air around the bridge blew bitterly cold. Less than a man-length wide, the ice bridge felt hard and slick under his feet. He had to pay attention to where he set his feet and could not allow himself to be distracted by the gurgling waters against the icicle struts below.
He did peer over the edge and see, submerged in the current, rocks and the murky shadows of toppled trees. Some distance to the south he made out a black line parallel to the bridge, which marked the boundary of the next river hexagon.
The last time he had crossed this river had been on Enrod’s raft, pushed by the cursed Sentinel. Delrael wondered about Enrod now. He could sense Jathen close behind him, and did not want to mention the fallen Sorcerer who had been a hero to the Tairans.
Delrael found it difficult to keep his balance on the downward curve of the opposite side, but managed to set foot on the bank again. Behind him Vailret slipped with the heels of his boots and fell on his backside into the mud. It showed the others to be careful, and Vailret managed to laugh at it; Delrael wondered if he had done the stunt on purpose, to make a point for them all.
Delrael reached out to take Siya’s hand, but she refused. Bryl scowled at her and worked his own careful way down. “You don’t get much help these days. You should take it when it’s offered.”
She snorted. “You might be an invalid, but I’m not yet.”
Vailret turned and squinted toward Tareah waiting on the opposite bank. The line of fighters continued to cross over the walkway. They began milling in the nearby forest terrain to keep from crowding the base of the bridge.
Jathen stood beside the other characters, but remained silent. He looked at the river, then gazed deep into the forest terrain that hid their long journey toward Tairé. Delrael wondered what it had been like for him to take a log and swim across the cold river. No wonder Jathen had been sick and exhausted by the time he reached the Stronghold village.
Scattered around the riverbank, Delrael noticed the burned spots of many different campfires, as if a great number of characters had waited there. Up and down the hex-line, he saw other dead fires spaced equally apart. One still smoldered.
“Here she comes!” Vailret whispered.
The last of the fighters had crossed over. The colorful figure of Tareah climbed up and strode along the ice bridge she had made. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing until she reached the apex and began to descend toward them.
The delicate icicle bridge melted into silvery trickles of water, pouring back into the river only one step behind her as she moved along. Tareah walked with stiff legs and a shuffling step that showed just how much she concentrated to maintain her spell. As she walked closer, the melt water splashed and drummed into the river like a heavy downpour filled with chunks of ice.
Delrael caught her as she stumbled the last few steps toward the bank. He pulled her off the base of the bridge as it suddenly collapsed into a great wave that smacked back into the silty river. The big splash dumped water and mud on those who stood too close to the hex-line.
Delrael held Tareah a second longer than he absolutely needed to. She pulled away, looking tired but exhilarated. She brushed herself off and tried to smear some of the mud from her sleeve. She gazed back over the river. “I did it!”
Delrael grinned back at her. “I should have known you could.” He avoided her eyes. “—without you needing to remind me.”
He looked at the scattered dead campfires again, then he heard someone moving in the forest behind him. For a moment he thought some of his fighters had gone to gather firewood.
As he turned, Delrael saw a tall powerfully built man walking along the quest-path out of the trees. He had long dark hair and a voluminous black beard; his eyes looked red. His white robe must have once looked magnificent, trimmed in purple, but now it was tattered and stained. Finger-smeared lines of ashes marked a strange pattern on the cloth. The man appeared healthy, though; powerful and confident. He cocked his head from one side to the other, fixing a fiery glare at random tree trunks, then at the human fighters.
Delrael recognized the Sentinel immediately.
Before he could say anything, Jathen brushed past him and stopped two steps away from the man, blinking, his mouth open in astonishment. His usual stunned expression now held hope and excitement. “Enrod!” he cried. “I knew you wouldn’t desert us.”
Enrod the Sentinel stopped and surveyed the army. When he saw Delrael and Vailret and Bryl among the gathered fighters, a flicker of confused recognition passed across his red eyes. Delrael found himself cringing inside, not knowing what would happen. This was the Sorcerer who had tried to destroy them all with the Fire Stone.
“I was … wondering when characters would come,” Enrod said. His eyes looked up and off to the side, as if listening to voices in his head. “Waiting for you.”
***