Norman had descended into the depression without breaking a single branch, and was now secure behind the trunk of the enormous oak. John had somehow shifted his bulk with equal success, and was stooped beside him. Crouched behind neighbouring trees were the others.
They signed to each other in the shadows, with the three strangers only twenty feet away.
Norman pointed to the flanks of the clearing: Go around.
Lucian nodded and led the others off into the darkness. John left the oak’s trunk without protest, stumbling once too often to excuse his presence. Norman tracked their silhouettes until their weapons appeared to be nothing more than extensions of their bodies. By the time they were settled, their outlines blended seamlessly with the blackened underbrush.
A single ghostly shadow, however, remained pressed against the trunk closest to Norman.
It was Richard. The whites of his eyes pleaded to be allowed to stay.
Norman signed for him to go and join the others, but he didn’t move an inch. His eyes flashed with defiance, and then he ambled towards the oak despite Norman’s shooing waves.
“What are you doing?”
“Maybe Lucian’s right: maybe my Master—DeGray—is out of touch. I’m tired of being useless. I need to be out here, in the thick of it. I need this.”
“You’ve never even been—”
“You need somebody else to go with you. They might attack on sight if it’s just you.”
Norman made to protest, but instead sighed. This was no time to argue. They were on the clock.
“Fine,” he said. “On three.” He ran a hushed three-count, and then they stepped out, hands raised.