The Thusius, perhaps fifty yards wide, ran with crystal clear water, and he could see straight down to the bottom of it, perhaps twenty feet below, its bed sparkling with rocks and gems of all different shapes and colors. It was a sight to see. Soon the currents caught them, and they all began to move, slowly at first, hundreds of rafts carrying thousands of men as one. They were a floating army.

They gained momentum quickly and soon the pace quickened. Duncan was satisfied to feel the waters moving at a fast pace beneath them, all of the rafts holding, gaining more speed than they ever would have on land—and not having to strain any horses or men. He searched the land and spotted his horse, galloping in the distance, leading the army of horses, and he felt a wave of pride.

Duncan, standing on the raft with several men, felt the river racing beneath him, the wind in his hair, the spray of the water reaching him on occasion. He used the pole to steer their raft, and they fell into a comfortable groove on the wide and smooth river.

He eventually relaxed and let down his guard as the river took them twisting around one bend after the other. He looked out and studied the ever-changing landscape. They passed purple forests and plains bleached white; they passed herds of exotic creatures, looking like gazelles, but with heads at each end of their body. They passed plains of rock, sprawled in odd shapes, as if some ancient civilization had plopped them down and left. It was an uninhabited stretch of Escalon, dominated more by nature than man.

Duncan looked up and studied the mountains of Kos, their white peaks ever present, looming larger the closer they came. Soon enough, they would reach them. If he could rally the warriors who lived at its peak, it would be the turning point, what he needed to stage an attack on the capital. He knew his chances were slim, but that was what it meant, in his eyes, to be a warrior: to wage battle, despite all odds.

His heart beat faster at the idea of freeing Escalon, of ridding it of the Pandesians, of waging the war they should have waged years ago. Win or lose, at least, finally, he was riding into his destiny.

“How long since you’ve seen Kos?” Seavig called out over the sound of the current, his raft coming up beside Duncan’s as he steered it with his pole, the two rafts cruising downriver side by side.

Duncan crouched down low as his raft suddenly dropped two feet, rocking violently in the rapids before leveling out again. The water was getting rougher, and as Duncan tried to concentrate on the currents, he marveled at how poised Seavig and his men were—water people, they stood tall, well-balanced, as if standing on dry land.