Securing the Hierophant's invitation has been just enough of a delay.
The little brown horsemen skirt around the camp where Caladar and his archers spend most of the afternoon. Once out of sight, they urge their horses into a quick canter and make for the city.
They are known at the gate - they have been coming here for years, the funny little men with the odd speech and odd habits. In the city most assume they are from the desert, and hardly bat an eye anymore when they come to trade their animal skins for women and sundries.
And they are small, no larger than a strong lad of twelve summers, so it is easy enough for them to slip unnoticed into the inner city,
In the city of Firbalt once gone to darkness
The city that spirals down into itself at its heart
Its heart black and beating with malice and memory
There shall you find it the Black Temple of Zraath