At the town’s edge, a man slipped into the group beside Gary, remaining at the back. His red hair was long and well-cut. He wore silvery armor, heavy plate that made Gary feel naked in his simple farmer’s clothing. At his hip swung a flanged mace, its grip leather, its metal dark. Across his back hung his enormous shield.

“Coming with us, Jerico?” Gary asked the paladin of Ashhur, unable to contain his excitement. “That’s great. The wolves don’t stand a chance now.”

Jerico glanced down at his breastplate, and Gary saw the thick scratches across its front, dulling the shine. Some of Gary’s excitement faded, replaced with a cold fear in his belly.

“I pray they don’t,” said the paladin, his face grim.

They arrived at the river. Gruss had agreed to let them take his boat, which he used for the rare trip south to sell extra crops to Ashhur’s paladins at their Citadel. It seated four, but only Darius and two others crossed the first time, not wishing to overload it because of his heavy armor. Back and forth the boat went, taking several minutes for each trip. The river was wide and slow, its waters cold from the mountain streams that fed it. Gary hung back with Jerico, feeling safer at his side.

“We’ll be able to kill them, won’t we?” Gary asked as his nerves continued to grow. He felt fine when moving, as if filled with a sense of purpose, but now that he stood at the edge of a dark forest, watching a small boat travel back and forth across the Gihon, he felt his confidence falter.

“Darius and I killed one by ourselves,” Jerico said, smiling at him. “And with all of you here, we can handle many more. But do not hope for combat, nor a chance to be a hero. Pray we all come home safe, and that your village will never see another one of those wicked creatures for many, many years.”

Gary shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and he stared at the leaf-strewn ground.

“I just don’t want to be a coward,” he mumbled.