“What will Serak do now that Draeken is his master?” Lira asked.
“He thinks to serve Draeken.” Fire dipped his hand into the spinning wheel of water, kicking mist around his arm. “I’m not sure he knows what he has unleashed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Water asked, glancing his way.
Rynda drifted closer, her breathing labored but not fatigued. “Serak has spent lifetimes anticipating this moment, but there is no way for him to anticipate how Draeken will really react—especially without the influence of the five fragments.”
“You don’t think he’ll do as Serak intends?” Lira eyebrows pulled down.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Rynda said. “But Draeken is his own being now, and people rarely do as you expect.”
Water frowned, disliking the idea that Draeken would be unpredictable. If he didn’t follow Serak’s plan, what would he do? Would he still open the Gate? Or would he turn against Serak and stand alone? Was there a chance he would rejoin the fragments and Elenyr?
The questions occupied them as they descended from the higher valleys into the lowlands of western Griffin. Camping only at night, they resumed their journey each day. The road became clogged with riders, many of which were soldiers. They shouted in alarm as Water and Rynda sped by, but their horses could not keep up with his magic and a rock troll queen.
They slowed as they approached Terros. It had been months since Water had seen the city, and when they stepped out of the trees his jaw dropped at the sight. The city and outlying farms had been swallowed by the war camps.
Tents and temporary forts dotted the farmland between the towers of Outer Terros. Hammers echoed from the dwarven camp where engineers built war machines, the metal and wood fashioned into ballistae and catapults. Others labored over large armored wagons, where dwarves could fire crossbows from within. Huge beasts conjured from fire were chained to the war machines, pawing the ground as dwarven fire mages completed the enchantments.
Adjacent to the dwarves, the elven war camp contained rank upon rank of water golems. Treewalkers took their places in a different formation, the large oak trees groaning as they obeyed the orders of the mages controlling them. Elven infantry and archers filled the camp, the twang of bows a soft backdrop to the morning.
Human camps from Erathan and Talinor filled the remainder of the farms. Cavalry from Talinor rode across the earth, the thundering horse hooves reverberating off the city walls. Children from the city lined the sides of training grounds, cheering the steel-armored soldiers. Erathan swordsmen trained on the south side, the clang of swords and shields adding to the din.
Rynda turned to her own camp of rock trolls. Although much smaller in size, the rock troll camp was the most organized. With forty-foot logs around the quickly erected fort, the camp contained a thousand rock trolls, the large warriors almost jovial as they prepared for the impending war.
“Food and water,” Rynda commanded when they stepped through the gates. “And send a messenger to King Justin that we’ve arrived with news.”
“Yes, my queen,” a troll said.
He sheathed the giant sword on his back and sprinted from the camp. Rynda caught the skin of water tossed to her and drank freely, while another troll approached and set his giant maul on the earth.
“Please tell me we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”
“Warshard Dent,” Queen Rynda said, pausing in gulping down water. “Our foes are almost gathered. When does the rest of our army arrive?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I just received word.”
“Will we be ready?” Rynda asked.
The troll general swept a hand to the trolls. “Always. When do we march?”
“As soon as King Justin confirms the order,” she said.
Warshard Dent was smaller than Water expected, and stood at just eight feet tall. Despite his smaller stature, he boasted more tattoos on his body than nearly anyone else, the carpet of ink in his Sundering revealing his talent and skill. For a weapon, he carried a large maul bearing spikes on the back side of the head.
“Why do we not assault Xshaltheria on our own?” Warshard Dent said. “Surely we can exterminate the threat without the lesser fools.”
“Not this time, Warshard,” Rynda said. “I’ve seen what Serak is capable of, and now he has Draeken at his side.”
Dent frowned and his eyes flicked to Water and Fire, the look revealing his knowledge that the fragments were part of Draeken. Water struggled with how to explain what had occurred, but Fire shrugged.
“Draeken is no longer part of us,” Fire said.
“So you’re fighting yourself?” Dent asked.
Water grinned. “It’s even stranger than it sounds.”
Dent grunted in agreement. “We have another problem. An assassin is stalking the camps.”
“Gendor,” Rynda said with a nod. “He serves Draeken now.”
“He’s killed over a hundred,” Dent said. “No one has seen him.”
“Any of our people?”
“Seven,” he replied.
“That many?” Water asked, surprised and disturbed.
“The assassin is formidable,” Dent said. “His scythe carries a lethal poison that kills quickly. We have yet to catch him.”
“Who is he killing?”
“Leaders,” Dent said. “He has yet to stalk my path, but I hope he does.”
“We can only hope,” Rynda said. “But watch your back.”
Fire leaned over to Water. “I like the trolls.”
