Anchor down, boat moored at a paved quay. From here on it’s overland – I just need to find the way. The bridge in the forest looks promising.
On the shore I switch to Bloodwalt and gather spare horses – a young and an older grey go on the lead. Every horse counts at the Rift.
Taking a shortcut through the forest to make it in time. A huge spider fell on the way, the troll and the bear we pass by. Sunflowers and poppies in a clearing – a moment for a photo and on we go.
We’re here. Stone colossi guard the entrance, stumps of a cleared forest all around, and below a camp full of tents and wagons.
Another colossus with outstretched claws, and next to it the red pillar of the Rift – this time within arm’s reach.
No time left for a safe house – a tent will do. I pitch it in the woods next to the camp and leave the spare baggage in it: cotton, nails and the rest of the odds and ends. I ride into battle travelling light.
A glance up – the Rift beam cuts across the sky right through the sun. Up close you can see it’s a whole sheaf of rays, not a single pillar.
The last players are arriving – on horseback and in ox-drawn wagons. A dragon banner flies over the pen, and the colossi wait with us.
The view from behind: red armour freshly repaired, a huge axe on the shoulder and pumpkins on the pauldrons, because autumn demands it. Bloodwalt stands calmly, a neighbour adjusts his saddlebags, and ahead of us the red pillar drives into the ground between the colossi. One more moment of calm before the storm.
In the pen next to the camp, hell horses – black, horned, with lava cracking under their skin and burning eyes. Next to them an ordinary grey looks remarkably modest.
