Grymn took off his crested helm of office, dropping to one knee and scooping a handful of spring water to his mouth. At his side, his Gryph-hound cocked its head, watching its master carefully.
‘At ease, Tallon,’ said Grymn, ruffling the beast’s neck feathers, ‘the water’s clean all right.’ He was amazed to hear his own words clearly; here, the constant drone that plagued them had receded to a distant hum. He drank again, and his fatigue sloughed away – warm golden light spread through him to every finger and toe. ‘In fact,’ he mused, ‘it may be vital.’
Grymn turned to his vanguard, a broad smile splitting his lips for the first time since his Reforging. The warriors started back, suspecting their leader had finally succumbed to the feverish madness of Ghyran’s curse.
‘Get in here and drink, you slack-jawed oafs,’ he laughed, waving the all-clear to the Prosecutors above. ‘Looks like we’ve found the only pure water in the forest. Better than pure,’ he said, crystal-clear droplets glittering from his palm. ‘Perhaps our allies have not deserted us after all.
- The Quest for Ghal Maraz.