The return journey turned out to be much easier than Water Stream had expected.
Her gaze frequently drifted to Kent, clad in his dark armor. Whether day or night, she could always spot his figure, with the guard squad surrounding him. And now, there was a giant among them.
After leaving the Bloodhammer Camp, their small group of around ten had grown into a company of over a hundred, most of whom were half-orcs and barbarian warriors eager for battle.
Now, they were joined by a vast group of cave-dwellers. A massive group, in fact—over two thousand.
A dozen horse-drawn carts and dozens of strange sled-like contraptions—designed by Kent, who spent half a day teaching the orcs and barbarians how to make them—groaned under the weight of cave-dwellers' frozen fish, dug-up roots, seeds, stone tools, stone mills, and woven grass supplies.
Somehow, Haka Chak managed to persuade all the chieftains of the cave-dweller tribes to agree to migrate en masse to Spear Valley.
Heaven knows what kind of charisma this black-armored guy had to accomplish such a jaw-dropping feat in such a short time.
She rode Kent's old horse, while Kent himself sat on a cart. They were getting close to the forest now, with the winter branches overhead forming a canopy that obscured the path, creating a roof of dry yellow leaves.
The road was winding and treacherous as the group, thousands strong, pressed forward. A thick, dry carpet of straw made the ground as soft as velvet, muffling the sounds of their horses' hooves. This quiet calm made her feel a sense of security she had never known before. She had never experienced such a journey with outsiders, let alone entertained the thought of living together in the same valley.
But now, this was about to become a reality.
Was this some kind of paradise?
A world where there is no distinction between races, no hierarchies, no hunger or poverty, no conflict?
"We've reached Wild Bull Meadow!" a giant at the front of the group shouted loudly.
The procession began to halt. After a brief rest, they would march for another half day before reaching the valley.
Water Stream took a soft, steaming potato from the fire, blew on it to cool it a bit, and took a small bite. As usual, Kent was in charge of roasting their meals; he had an obsessive love for fine food, and his head was filled with all sorts of strange culinary techniques.
The overweight barbarian who had originally come to the Bloodhammer Camp to search for his captured giant friend had not found any trace of him. Although this left him somewhat downhearted, Kent's cooking had successfully lifted his spirits. He was even starting to look up to Kent, pestering him daily to learn new cooking techniques.
After a short break, they mounted their horses once more, the barbarians shouldered their ropes, and the carts started moving forward again.
Water Stream was actually beginning to enjoy the journey.
On the cart beside her, Lark, whom they had rescued, had recovered from her injuries under Kent's healing prayers, though she had now developed a fever. Oddly enough, this was a good sign, as it meant she was on the verge of breaking through to become a Level 10 Guardian after her life-and-death battle with the orc warriors. Following Kent's advice, Water Stream was taking her to Spear Valley to recover fully after her breakthrough.
Somewhere along the way, Water Stream found herself growing accustomed to hearing Kent's voice. Troubles that seemed too hard to bear were somehow easier to handle when he was around.
They were almost there. Spear Valley was just ahead.
A tall, gray stone tower stood on one side of the valley's entrance, perched atop a steep cliff. It looked like stone but seemed smoother somehow. On the other side of the cliff, a dozen figures were building a second tower. When they saw the mass of people approaching the valley, a piercing whistle sounded from the other tower, and the figures quickly retreated into the half-finished structure.
On top of the cliff, Gray Beard, who was overseeing the construction, looked pale. Building towers on either side of the valley entrance was part of Kent's plan, with detailed blueprints that simply had to be followed. The new cement and bricks convinced everyone that the Chief must be an alchemist. Otherwise, how could mere powder and water turn into a substance as solid as stone?
Kent had designed these towers to serve both defensive and watchtower functions. The height of the cliffs allowed a line of sight of over thirty kilometers on clear days. Once Kent's telescope was complete, any army attempting to invade Spear Valley would be spotted at least half a day in advance.
Once the towers were completed, each would accommodate dozens of hunters who could rain down arrows and stones on any invading force. In this world, where war tactics were still primitive, only the heavily armored armies of the highlands could withstand such a defense.
"Boss, there's a whistle," the scout, Cripple, reported.
"Hmm, they must be alarmed by the sight of our army. Send a response," Kent ordered with a nod.
Cripple nodded, pulling a strange instrument from around his neck and blowing a high, sharp note that rang out across the valley.
Two short whistles and one long—signifying "friendly."
The valley inhabitants, trembling in fear at the sight of the mixed army of barbarians and half-orcs, recognized the whistle.
"Gray Beard, how could these outsiders know the Chief's whistle codes?" asked a nervous lad.
Gray Beard was just as baffled. Kent had designed this whistle and taught them several different whistle codes for transmitting information over long distances. But how could this army know the signals?
One daring young man poked his head out and, seeing no enemy arrows flying back, whistled in response.
Three long whistles, one short—signifying "Chief's group."
"It's the Chief's?" a brave soul ventured out.
More followed, stepping out of the watchtower.
"Look! Isn't that Lady Water Stream at the front?" one sharp-eyed villager shouted.
All eyes focused on the figure riding at the head of the group—slim, with flowing hair—wasn't it Water Stream?
"And the Chief, on the cart over there!" someone else called.
The crowd on the cliff cheered.
Gray Beard felt as if he'd just been to the gates of death and back, his back drenched in cold sweat. Leaning against the still-drying cement wall, he got up and staggered outside.
The line of people stretched over a thousand meters. There were even large carts—thousands of them.
And they were all foreigners.
The Chief…
Had he summoned an army of magical beings?