The expedition had fallen into perilous circumstances. Lord Edmund, succumbing to a strange illness, seemed close to death. The shaman’s oaths and mutterings and poultices had done no good for him. The rain had started two weeks ago and seemed unending, soaking, saturating, everything. The map, though, was still safe and dry. It was the one thing that, if lost, would spell the party’s doom. All of them were either sick, or starving, or had otherwise fallen into despair. Only Mr. Lazaro seemed to have not lost hope. He had come this close and would not give up on the promise of such wealth if the lost city was found. He sat by the sputtering campfire and smoked his pipe serenely. It would all work out in the end. Somewhere, in the thick forest of green, a great city of gold awaited.