Reborn As The Barbarian God

They could try to go around the meeting point, avoid the other banners entirely. But the Abyssal land's geography was treacherous, and the other banners would likely have scouts watching for exactly that kind of maneuver.

They could fight.

Charge in with weapons drawn, try to cut their way through to whatever passage led toward the core.

But even at full strength, the Stronghide masters couldn't defeat three combined banners. In their current condition, weakened and wounded, they'd be slaughtered.

Not to talk of the banner lords themselves.

Or...

"We could walk into the trap," Karathra said slowly.

Every head turned toward her.

"Deliberately," she continued slowly. "We know what they're planning. They don't know we know. That's an advantage."

"An advantage?" Ashclaw's voice was incredulous. "They outnumber us five to one, at least. How is walking into their trap an advantage?"

"Because they'll be overconfident. They think we're sheep coming to slaughter. They won't be expecting resistance, a real resistance. They'll be sloppy, careless." Karathra looked at Lady Pelica. "You said you wanted to prove yourself as an ally. This would be your chance."

Lady Pelica raised an eyebrow. "You want me to help you fight three banners? Three lords above the masters."

"I want you to help us survive three banners. There's a difference." Karathra turned back to the group. "We don't need to defeat them. We just need to hold out long enough for something to change."

"Change how?" Hrothgar rumbled. "What's going to change?"

"The Chief." Karathra touched her chest, feeling the steady thrum of divine power that flowed through it. "I don't know how....but.... but our god is.... I know our chief is coming."

She could only finish with an helpless shrug. She could feel something she couldn't describe and it scared her... what if it was just her own hope?

"You're betting our lives on the possibility that Galthor will emerge from the Weeping Canyon in time to save us," Brakthar said flatly. "A canyon that has never released anyone it's taken."

"I'm betting our lives on the certainty that the Chief is not like anyone else." Karathra's voice was fierce. "He killed a cursed monster when he should have been helpless. He is the chosen of a god! Our god. Have you seen the likes of him before? He's in that canyon right now, growing stronger instead of dying, and you want to tell me he won't find a way out?"

The masters exchanged glances. Doubt and faith warred in their expressions, neither gaining the upper hand.

"There's another factor," Lady Pelica said. "The other banners aren't unified. They're allied by convenience, not loyalty. The Xyrrh in particular, that Lord Doveling is cunning. He won't share the core's treasures if he can avoid it."

"You think he'll betray the others?"

"I think he's already planning to. The Xyrrh always have contingencies." Lady Pelica smiled thinly. "If we're clever, we might be able to use that. Turn their treachery against them."

Karathra considered. It was risky. Incredibly risky. But every option was risky at this point, and at least this one gave them a chance.

"Then we approach carefully," she decided. "We go to the meeting point, we act like we don't know anything is wrong. Let them think we're desperate, vulnerable. And we watch. We wait. The moment something shifts, the moment an opportunity appears, we act."

"And if no opportunity appears?" Drakira asked quietly. Her eyes heavy with unsaid things.

"Then we fight. And we die well." Karathra looked at each of her companions in turn. "The Chief would do no less for us. Can we offer him less in return?"

One by one, the masters nodded. Even Brakthar, whose face was tight with fear he refused to show, set his jaw and accepted the plan.

"Lady Pelica?" Karathra turned to the enchanter. "Are you with us?"

Lady Pelica was quiet for a long moment. Her eyes were distant, calculating probabilities that only she could see.

"I said I wanted to be on the winning side," she murmured. "And I meant it." She focused on Karathra, and something like genuine emotion flickered in her gaze. "Very well. I'm with you. Whatever that end may be."

"Good." Karathra gathered herself, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to overwhelm her. "Gather your things. We approach in formation, weapons sheathed but ready. Remember, we don't know it's a trap. We're just exhausted travelers, grateful to have reached our allies."

The masters rose, collected their gear, and formed up behind her.

Karathra looked at the ridge ahead, beyond which three banners waited to kill them. Her hand rested on her axe, and her heart beat steady in her chest.

'...Hold on, Chief. We're coming. And when you emerge from that canyon—when, not if—we'll be ready...'

She stepped forward, and the Stronghide banner walked toward the trap that waited to swallow them.

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The Valley of Betrayal announced itself with silence.

Not the natural silence of empty spaces, but an oppressive, deliberate quiet that seemed to swallow sound before it could fully form.

Galthor's footsteps made no echo.

His breathing produced no whisper.

Even the ambient noise of the Abyssal land, the distant groans of corrupted stone, the hiss of unstable essence, died the moment he crossed the threshold.

The valley was narrow, barely wide enough for ten men to walk abreast.

Walls of dark stone rose on either side, their surfaces smooth and featureless, as if something had scoured away all detail. The floor was littered with debris, bones, rusted weapons, fragments of armor so corroded they crumbled at a touch.

And everywhere, everywhere, there were bodies.

They weren't fresh.

They weren't even recognizable as bodies in most cases, just shapes in the stone, impressions where flesh and bone had been pressed so hard into the rock that they'd become part of it.

Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe, stretching the length of the valley like a grotesque carpet.

Galthor walked carefully, trying not to step on what had once been people. It was impossible. The bodies were too numerous, too densely packed. His boots crunched on fragments that might have been ribs or might have been stone. He tried not to think about it.

The valley remembered.