Paragon of Destruction

The stew at the inn was every bit as good as the innkeeper had claimed. It was the best meal Arran had tasted in centuries — though admittedly, he’d had precious few proper meals during that time.

He remained in Redhill for several more days, but the food had little to do with that decision. Instead, he sought out any information he could find about the battlefield, asking the townsfolk as much as he could without drawing too much suspicion.

This proved an easy task. A few drinks at an inn or tavern were all it took to loosen the locals’ tongues, and after a few more, they treated Arran almost as one of their own.

Yet while getting the townsfolk to speak was easy, Arran soon discovered that they knew little beyond what the innkeeper had already told him.

The Hunters had guarded the area as long as anyone could remember, capturing all those foolish enough to enter the old battlefield. Some people still tried their luck occasionally — treasure seekers and local youths looking to prove themselves — none of those ever made it back alive.

Although Arran was disappointed at the lack of information, he wasn’t too worried about the disasters that had befallen his predecessors.

His sharpened Sense and improved Shadowcloak should make it a simple matter to avoid all but the most powerful enemies, and even if he was somehow discovered, he had a weapon that few foes could resist.

He left Redhill after three days, giving the innkeeper another few pieces of silver before he departed. The man looked at Arran with some wonder as he accepted the coins — evidently, it was a rare thing for him to get guests this generous.

"For the food," Arran explained. "Haven’t tasted anything as good as that in years."

The innkeeper nodded in thanks, but his expression turned serious. "I hope you’re not planning anything foolish."

"No worries," Arran replied. "I know danger when I see it, and I have no intention of risking my life for some treasure. Tangling with Hunters is something best left to mages."

"Good to hear that," the innkeeper said, a hint of relief in his voice. "Those Hunter bastards have killed enough people already. I’d hate to see a friendly fellow like yourself fall to them."

After that, Arran gave the innkeeper a final greeting, then began to make his way out of the small town.

Once he had left Redhill behind, he did not head straight for the battlefield. Instead, he set off along the road from which he had come, away from his destination.

He had no plans of abandoning his search, of course. Yet although he had seen nothing suspicious during his days in the town, something about the whole situation seemed off.

The Hunters might consider the battlefield a graveyard, but they had waged war against the Ninth Valley for long enough that the borderlands held numerous such graveyards. And if they truly wanted to keep outsiders away from places where their comrades had fallen, they’d have to occupy half the borderlands.

Yet they hadn’t. As far as Arran knew, this battlefield was the only one within the borderlands that they gave such attention.

The more he considered the matter, the more he thought the explanation didn’t make sense. He might not know much about the Hunters, but he could not imagine such a warlike people to be so sentimental they’d waste their troops defending a graveyard.

If they prevented others from entering the battlefield, there had to be a more practical reason. The area must hold something else — something of value.

And if the Hunters valued the battlefield for reasons other than sentimentality, then they’d keep a close watch on the nearby towns, as well.

He was barely half a mile away from Redhill when his suspicions were confirmed.

Though his eyes saw nothing, his Sense told him that someone was following him. A man — short and skinny, with a light step and nimble movements. And as he followed Arran, the man took care to remain concealed in the trees and shrubs, just far enough behind to keep an eye on his target.

Arran quickly understood that his pursuer was a skilled tracker. Had his Sense not been sharp enough to spot a squirrel from a mile away, he’d never have known he was being followed.

But as it was, the man’s attempts at stealth were in vain. Hiding in the bushes, no matter how skillfully, did absolutely nothing to trick Arran’s Sense.

Arran considered laying an ambush, but after a brief moment of thought, he abandoned the idea. While he might get some information out of his pursuer, the man’s allies would doubtless notice it if he went missing.

So Arran merely continued along the road at a calm pace, taking care not to reveal that he was anything but a simple traveler.

For half a day, the man followed behind him, never revealing even the slightest glimpse of himself. Useless though these efforts were, Arran could not help but be impressed by the man’s skillful pursuit — without magic, he wouldn’t have been able to do half as good a job.

Yet at midday, the man came to a sudden halt, then began to head in the opposite direction a moment later. It seemed he’d decided that his quarry’s desire to leave was sincere.

A sly smile crossed Arran’s lips as he Sensed the man’s change of direction, but he did not respond immediately. Instead, he continued onward for another quarter mile, taking care not to reveal anything while the man might still see him.

When he was certain that there were no more eyes on him, he slipped into a patch of brush along the road and immediately used his Shadowcloak. And then, he set off after his former pursuer.

They retraced their steps along the road to Redhill over the next several hours. Except this time, Arran was the hunter, and he had a far easier time of following his prey.

His Shadowcloak was strong enough that he doubted the man would notice his presence at a single pace, and with his sharpened Sense, he could easily detect his quarry even from a mile away.

About halfway back to Redhill, the man made a sudden sharp turn, abandoning the road and starting toward a new direction — the battlefield.

This was exactly what Arran had hoped for. If the man had gone straight back to Redhill, following him would have been a waste of time — another few days spent in the town would not bring any new answers.

But if the short man was heading elsewhere, Arran was eager to find out what his destination was. It was obvious that he was either a Hunter or one of their allies, and if he was heading toward the battlefield, it wouldn’t be to enjoy the sights.

In the days that followed, Arran followed the man like a ghost, never letting his quarry get more than a few hundred paces away from him.

The short man had been cautious while trailing Arran, and as he made his way through the wilderness, his caution only seemed to increase further.

Several times, he doubled back on his tracks, choosing indirect paths to obscure his destination from any pursuers. And twice, he stopped in places suitable for ambushes, lying in wait to see if anyone was behind him.

Of course, none of this achieved anything.

The only person following him was Arran, and the man’s caution could not contend with Arran’s Sense and Shadowcloak. All his prudence achieved was to cause his pursuer some slight annoyance, as Arran had to stand and wait for him to resume his journey.

After nearly three days of travel, however, they finally reached the man’s destination — a large clearing amid the woods, with a camp at the center of it.

Arran’s Sense told him that there were over a dozen people in the camp, but the camp was large enough to hold several times that number.

There were guards, too, he Sensed. In the camp’s surroundings, another half dozen people patrolled the woods, slowly moving through the shadows between the trees.

Arran briefly hesitated as he saw his former pursuer enter the camp, but then, he quickly followed behind the man. The opportunity to learn more about the situation was one he could not pass up.