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surrounded by hundreds of allies. Such a desperate mission could not havebeen a random act, nor even a job bought and paid for by some western lord or lady. It had to be grave and personal for the Old Man to have sent Kheil. In the five years since Chereth had left him, Berun had not passed a day without wondering of his master’s fate. All those days of wandering through villages, seeking other druid Circles, looking for word from the old half-elf, hoping for any rumor but finding none. To now have it confirmed …
    Berun felt … what? Tired. That was it. All those years of hoping had given him purpose. To have that hope crushed left him feeling lost and weary.
    “But,” said Sauk, his voice going quiet, scarcely more than a whisper, “here’s the thing I bet you didn’t know.” He smiled. “Chereth is still alive.”
    Breath caught in Berun’s throat. “Alive?”
    “As you and me.”
    “But … the Old Man?”
    Sauk smiled. “Hale as ever.”
    “But you said that you and your men have sworn to kill him. I don’t understand.”
    “You want to know about your master or about the Old Man?”
    Both, Berun realized, and he didn’t like that.
    “Truth be told,” Sauk continued, “you need to hear both. That’s why we came for you. Your master made the same mistake the Old Man did—he hunted prey in its own den. Nothing is more dangerous than a wild animal cornered in its home. Long tale cut short, the Old Man captured your master and has held him prisoner all these years.”
    “Prisoner?” said Berun. The thought of old Chereth locked in the stony cells of Sentinelspire …
    “At times,” said Sauk, “the Old Man spends half the day and night talking to the old leaf lover. Enjoys his company like a favorite uncle. Other times, the Old Man questions him. Questions him hard.”
    Sauk didn’t have to explain. Berun knew all too well what an interrogation by the Old Man of the Mountain entailed.
    “Sometimes,” said Sauk, “the Old Man uses his … arts”—the half-orc scowled as if he’d tasted something sour —“to leech power from the leaf lover.”
    Berun’s anger turned cold. The Old Man had once been a devoted follower of Bhaal. The death of his god had hit him hard, made him desperate in his search for a new source of power. He’d never been too particular about where the power came from.
    “Other times,” Sauk continued, his voice dropping low, “the Old Man hurts your master. Hurts him just for the pleasure of it.”
    “What?” said Berun. “Why?”
    “ ’Cause that’s what the Old Man does.”
    “No,” said Berun. “Not Alaodin. He’s a killer, but it’s … business. Even the Old Man never hurt just to hurt.”
    “You’ve been gone a long time,” said Sauk. “Almost nine years. Things have changed at the Fortress. Things happen now that …” The half-orc’s voice faltered and he shook his head. “Dark things. Vile.”
    “What kind of things?”
    Sauk scowled into the fire and made the sign of the Beastlord—three fingers hooked like claws, which he dragged down his face and heart. “Not here,” he said. “Not in the dark.”
    “You? Afraid?”
    “Afraid?” said Sauk, thinking as he chewed a large hunk of bread. He swallowed. “If you mean am I made weak at the thought of dying, then no. I don’t know that kind of fear. Not anymore. But there are worse things than death, and I have hunted enough prey—many stronger than me—to know when it is time to strike and kill and boast, and when it is best not to draw attention to yourself. Besting thosestronger than you … that is honor. Calling down doom … that’s just foolish.”
    Sauk chewed his lip and stared into the fire. The rest of the camp had gone quiet, caught up in Sauk’s tale.
    The half-orc broke the silence. “But that’s not why we came for you. This is about that old druid locked in the Fortress.”
    “His name is Chereth,” said Berun. “And why do you care?”
    Sauk