That would not have been Slade’s first guess for what was behind that damned spy-bird, but wizards did strange things, who was to say what was normal for them? Was a one-eyed giant zombie somehow less normal than a conspiracy of phantom ravens…
But giants, living or dead, meant a real fight. The kind your descendants would remember in song across the ages. Slade hadn’t seen a fight like this since…well, the last time they faced off against a group of giants, in the troll cave. Assuming they hadn’t been killed by goblins years ago.
And damn Yorick for not naming an heir yet. Or having a proper true-born son of his own. Or a proper wife. Nine hells, more sober than Corbin wasn’t much of a standard to set. Humans were short-lived as it was, and it was time to think about the future.
Slade said nothing for a long time, and simply stared off into the darkness. His grip tightened on his waraxe, but the wyverns sensed his mood, and kept their distance.
The troll fight killed Corbin, even if Gorum saw fit to change his mind about it and throw him back. And that could very well happen again, one of them could die in that ancient ruin. Best bet was Markoa. While an excellent archer, that might not make much difference inside the wizard’ lair. Looked to be either a tight fit inside that monolith, or underwater, and a bow wouldn’t be much good in either circumstance. Come to think of it, the only one in good shape was Lizvetta; Corbin might have trouble in tight quarters as well. Slade made a mental note to get the longspear from Fennario tomorrow before they left camp.
Then he pulled out a scrap of paper, and began to write. The elf was just dumb enough for this to work.