Yet still, Duncan wished they would have taken any other route. This lake was also a cursed place, a place of death, a place one did not visit without reason. Even from here he felt a chill as he examined its shores, ringed by red, gravel-like rocks, its waters beyond it exploding with hot springs, sending off small clouds of steam as if the lake were venting its wrath. They all stopped, their armor clinking as thousands of horses rested, a sudden silence amidst the winter gale, and took in the sight before them. Duncan marveled at it, one of the wonders of Escalon.

“Is there no other way?” Duncan asked Seavig, who came to a stop beside him.

Seavig grimly shook his head, still staring out.

“We must follow its shores to the mouth of the Thusius and that is the most direct way to Kos. Don’t worry, old friend,” he said, clasping Duncan’s shoulder with a broad smile, “the old wives’ tales are not true. The lake will not eat you, and we won’t be swimming in it.”

Duncan still did not like it.

“Why not take the plains?” Anvin asked.

Seavig pointed.

“You see there?” he said.

Duncan looked and saw a thick fog rolling in. It came in way too fast, like a cloud in a storm, and within moments it was rushing their way, blinding. Duncan, immersed in a whiteout, had a jolt of fear as he could no longer see his men—he could not even see Seavig, just a few feet away. He had never experienced anything like it.

“It is not the Lake of Ire one fears,” Seavig said, his voice rising calmly from the fog, “but the plains surrounding it—and the fog that covers them. You see, my friend, you can hear my voice but you cannot see my face. That is how men die here. They get lost in the fog and never return.”

“And how could fog kill a person?” Arthfael asked, beside them.

“It is not the fog,” Seavig replied. “It is the creatures that ride it.”

Just as quickly, a gale of wind rushed through and blew the fog away—and Duncan felt an immense sense of relief to be able to see the lake again.

“If we take the plains,” Seavig continued, “we will lose each other in the fog. If we stick to the lake’s shores, we shall have a guide. Let us go quickly—the winds are shifting.”

Seavig kicked his horse, and Duncan joined, as did the others, all of them proceeding at a trot downhill and toward the lake. The water’s hissing grew louder as they neared, and as they reached its shores, the red gravel beneath their horses made for an eerie nose. Duncan’s sense of apprehension deepened.