He’d demanded the mapmaker put a scale to her drawings or something to roughly indicate the passing of miles or days’ travel between one place and the next. But she added only landmarks that he might notice on his journey south, not seeming to understand precisely what he wanted. So Direfang still had no clue where exactly they were in the mountain chain and how much farther it was to the sea.
“Maybe two years’ travel,” he mused. “Could it really take that long, two years? Or could it take more? The world is so big.”
“Two years for what?” Boliver asked. The earth-colored goblin scratched his head, listening to Direfang. Then he scowled as he understood. “Two years to reach Mudwort’s forest? Two years?”
“To the Qualinesti Forest,” Direfang said. “Maybe. Hard to tell. More than a year, probably. Maybe two. A long time in any event. It is on the other side of the world from Steel Town. There’s a mountain range and a swamp, and then more mountains. The world is very, very big, Boliver.”
Boliver shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t think all the clans will walk for that long. Saro-Saro is old and might not live that long anyway. Besides, the clans are tired of walking in these mountains. The forest would be good, though, at least the forest I saw in the vision Mudwort conjured. Lots and lots of trees there. But the clans may give up before the forest. Before two years, surely, Direfang. The clans will give up long before one year.”
“Yes,” Direfang replied. And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? he mused to himself. He imagined how good it would feel to be left alone … or to be traveling with just a handful of goblins he truly liked. But there was no safety in small numbers. The ogres and minotaurs would capture the goblins and hobgoblins and resell them as slaves to the Dark Knights. Their only hope was to cling together in that massive force.
Not even the tylor had defeated them.
Direfang’s finger hovered above the spot where the map-making dwarf had drawn an X to represent Reorx’s Cradle. But she hadn’t known where Steel Town was-the Dark Knights had kept the place as secret as possible-and so he still had no way of knowing how far they’d come from the ruined mining camp.
How many days had they traveled? At first Direfang had tried to keep count, but the numbers were lost. Since his tumble down the mountainside, some things were difficult to recall.
He looked toward the bottom edge of the page, where the dwarf had drawn the peaks more tightly packed. The priest had translated that those represented the Southern Khalkists, which consisted of the Onyx Teeth, on the border of the swamp, and the Ogre Peaks, which Direfang desperately wanted to avoid. Nearby stretched what she’d called the Reorxcrown Mountains, which essentially formed the border between Khur and Blode. She’d claimed that her village was in the central Khalkists, near a group of mountains called the Suncradles, from which came the name of their village, Reorx’s Cradle. The dwarf had said she’d never traveled beyond those ranges, and so could not draw a map of anything else.
“One thing sure. A long way to go to the Qualinesti Forest,” Direfang repeated. “Too long.”
Boliver, looking over his shoulder, tried to make his own sense of the maps but finally gave up. “Maybe Mudwort can find a better way,” he proposed, “one that would not take two years. Maybe one that would not involve walking over more mountains.”
Direfang raised his head. “Yes. Maybe Mudwort can.”
“I’ve been watching you,” Grallik said, “for some time now.” He sat opposite Mudwort, though not so close that he might spook her into fleeing. “Can you understand me? Understand anything I’m saying to you?” He sat with his back straight and his shoulders square, traditional military posture. He tried to show some pride, even though he wore filthy rags and his hair was a tangled, matted mess.
The red-skinned goblin regarded the wizard slowly. Her nostrils swelled, taking in his fetid scent, and she drew her lips into a line, her brow furrowing and her veins tightening along the sides of her head. Her eyes were tiny, dark points as they fixed on Grallik, but the wizard was uncertain if she was really looking at him or through him. She seemed to disappear inside herself, breathing shallowly and not even acknowledging his presence.
“Mudwort,” he tried again.
Not even a blink did he get.
The air was cool and had a dampness to it, and the faint breeze brought the scent of wildflowers that grew in patches of dirt on the eastern slope. But the breeze also bore the redolent stink of hobgoblins and goblins. There was a distinct odor to the mountains themselves too, the peaks rising to the east and west and stretching as far south as they could see.
Grallik let out a deep breath and placed his hands on his knees, the fingers of his right hand finding one of the many holes in his undertunic and worrying at the threads. He kept his eyes on the goblin shaman, resolving to engage her, communicate with her. It was the first real chance he’d had to talk to her.
“I know you can speak a little of the human tongue. I heard you warn a guard back in Steel Town about the coming earthquakes.”
She scowled. “Warned the guards about something.” The human words sounded raspy and foreign coming from her, and he had to concentrate to understand her. “Did not know about what you call … earthquakes. Just knew the stones in the mine were anxious. Felt something bad was going to happen, but the Dark Knights would not listen to me. Now those Dark Knights are dead.”
“You knew the volcanoes would erupt too, didn’t you?”
She scooted farther away from him and looked around, seeing groups of goblins nearby; there were so many in Direfang’s army that true solitude was impossible. She watched Pippa smoothing at a shirt she’d fashioned into a dress and trying to brush the dirt out of it.
Grallik craned his neck to see what she was looking at. Pippa was also wearing the slippers she’d taken off a dead dwarf; she’d tied them around her feet with cord she’d found somewhere. They made slapping sounds as she moved. The young goblin had also tied a cord around her waist to hold her shirt up so she wouldn’t trip over its hem. Grallik thought the goblin looked absurd, comical, and he returned his attention to Mudwort.
“Your magic …?” Grallik had rehearsed several speeches he’d planned to deliver to Mudwort, but the right words eluded him at the moment.
She turned to look at him, again her small eyes staring, her expression heavy with distaste. She folded her spindly arms in front of her, relaxed them and interlaced her fingers. After a moment, she rubbed her thumbs together, a gesture that might have seemed nervous but that Grallik took for boredom. He feared she might get up and leave him at any moment.
“Mudwort … I want to-”
She wrinkled her nose and spat. “Hate Dark Knights.” Those words were clear; he had no trouble understanding. “Mean men, hateful men.” Still, she made no move to rise, though she glanced up for a moment.
The moon was directly overhead, silvery and hazy with a rain ring.
“The Dark Knight tongue is ugly sounding,” she added matter-of-factly. “Don’t know much of it. Don’t want to. The words are as ugly as the men.”
“But some of it, the language, you know. That is good.” He paused. “Listen, please. I’m not a Dark Knight anymore, Mudwort.” Grallik spoke slowly, hoping that it might help her understand his words, trying to emphasize his sincerity. “I left the Order when I left Steel Town. I’m just a man now and-”
“A hated man.” She spat again. “A slave now.”
“Mudwort, teach me your magic.” He ground his teeth together, angry at himself for rushing into his plea. He’d not intended to bring up the subject until after he’d established some sort of rapport with her-days or, at the outside, weeks from then. He’d planned to compliment her on her skills, try to get her to warm to him. But he’d clearly ruined any chances he might have had. His skin suddenly felt as dry and brittle as old parchment; the damp air seemed to pull all the life from him. His face and hands felt chafed, and his fingers ached so badly that he stopped worrying at the thread.