The Setting of Sirith

“There they are after all,” said the aide.

Ezran said nothing. Neither had Fordrellon; the Captain had been in a perpetual foul mood since the rumored return of the Zilv’natha. Ezran vainly hoped he might satisfy himself on clearing out a few dozen demonspawn, but the dire look in the wuyon’mar’s eyes had only deepened, not abated, since the foul creatures had entered their sight.

“He’s up to his old tricks again,” Fordrellon muttered.

Sirith? Ezran doubted. “They do not seem very organized.”

“You think that, then they close the trap behind you,” said Fordrellon.

Ezran let that remark hang in the air, wondering if Fordrellon recognized his own bitterness in it. As he did so, he came upon a thought. “I’m going down there.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” said the aide. The other wuyon’mar looked askance at him, at his leg.

“I have a hunch,” said Ezran.

Fordrellon also glowered at him.

“If anything goes wrong, you will be right there on my flank,” Ezran told him, and the wuyon’mar seemed to relent, just a bit.

“For the glory of Carro,” snarled Fordrellon, and then it was Ezran following him, instead of the other way around, as the wuyon’mar strode to meet what seemed like an inevitable battle.

But how would it end? Perhaps only when the wuyon’mar stopped seeking his own death, Ezran thought suddenly, and he shivered.

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