Sirith paced along one of the waterways. It had unexpectedly swung back towards the open plains, and all too soon he was staring back out across the lands of Tarith.
The forest of Bataklik was magical. It was grown by the akor’mari in centuries past, to hide their burrows from the Surface. Intruders who went in never came out again, though Sirith wondered if perhaps there was still some latent magic in the trees that recognized his akor’mar blood and turned him away rather than killing him.
He had a good view from where he was at, on top of a little cliff. The brook wound its lazy way out onto the plain, where it disappeared into a green area of marshy grass and shrubs but no visible water. The sun reflecting off the golden grass hurt Sirith’s eyes, but still he peered, trying to determine where he had been led out to.
In the distance, he could see that the farms were burning.
The demonspawn perhaps? Or the Lord Baenarn finally revealing his true colors?