In his precious spell tomes in Steel Town, there was an incantation like the spell he was experiencing. It was not joined magic, of course; before watching the goblins, he’d not thought it possible to join magic. But the “distant view,” a spell like that stirred a memory. Arcane eye, arcane vision, magic sight … something like that was the name of the enchantment. He’d cast it once or twice, a long time past. He’d collected the necessary words for it during his study with the black-robed wizards before the Chaos War. He had written them down in a precious spell tome, lost when the earthquakes hit.
He’d never had a reason to use such a spell since his early years, so preoccupied had he become with his destructive fire enchantments. Amazing spellcraft! he thought as his mind floated higher, and vaguely he registered that he was growing weaker still. Mudwort is definitely feeding off me. The spell was parasitic, evidently. But Grallik didn’t care. She and Boliver were tugging him along, and he savored the experience.
He spied a river running parallel to the mountains, on the other side of the western ridge. Grallik knew Mudwort would tell Direfang about the water and that they would look for a shortcut to reach it. They were all so thirsty, despite drinking out of the stream near Reorx’s Cradle. The river he saw was wide and dark with night, with the moon reflected in it, the shimmering ripples stark against the black water, adding to the wizard’s dizziness.
There seemed no more mountains west of the river. Grallik released a sigh of relief. He was so tired of all the damnable rocks that rose all around him and the sharp little ones along the trail that bit into his painfully-aching feet. There were low hills farther west, but they evinced gentle slopes. The land beyond them smoothed to a plain divided by a winding road.
He wanted to linger over the inviting countryside, but Mudwort didn’t seem too interested in the area.
The image of the river returned, and the goblins’ magic followed it south. The river narrowed, with pines growing along its banks. The roots of the pines looked like black snakes slithering into the equally black river, the tall trees cutting some of the moonlight and making the scene look eerie.
Startled, Grallik heard the splash of some fish and the rustling of branches as a great horned owl took flight. There was a smattering of the sound of smaller wings-blackbirds that had been disturbed by something. He could smell the river; then the goblins’ magic took him low across the clear water. Grallik tried to hold the refreshing scent in deep and memorize it. That helped to banish the vestiges of char that had clung to his nostrils since he had burned the last batch of goblin bodies.
Before he could make out all the details of the scene, they were climbing again, and the scent of the pines mingled with the night air. Another wave of dizziness crashed against him, and his physical form fought for balance. The pines gave way to oaks, some of them ancient things with gnarled trunks as twisted as bent old men. Their branches overhung the river, creating a canopy, and the goblins passed through it, dragging Grallik’s senses with them.
He swore he could feel the leaves tickling his skin and the wind cooling his face. He delighted in the soft sounds.
Farther, and the river widened once more, meandering through a stretch of rocky land dotted by smaller trees. Finally the river straightened, miles and miles from where they’d started their journey. And judging by the whorls and ripples on its surface, Grallik could tell the river’s current had picked up speed.
Ahead was a sheet of blackness, speckled here and there by moonlight. The New Sea, he realized. There were a few deepwater docks at a port town to the west, a few lanterns glowing in windows … so tiny, the dots looked like fireflies.
“Not all that far to get to the sea,” Grallik heard Boliver say. “A few weeks to the water. No longer than that. Maybe less. Maybe only days. Hard to tell how long it will take to walk there. But not all that far.”
“But it is the journey after the end of the river that Direfang will worry over,” Mudwort said. “Isn’t that right, Direfang?”
The hobgoblin didn’t answer.
Grallik felt exhausted by their magic spell, the ordeal. He struggled to stay awake and to protect the basket of precious food he held in his lap; he could not afford to have some goblin steal his food while his mind continued the journey with Mudwort and Boliver. And yet he couldn’t afford to break away from the spell either.
They floated over the sea for some time. The wizard could not tell how long the enchantment was taking- minutes or hours. It didn’t matter; he was still caught up in the thrill of it. They followed the eastern shoreline of the New Sea, where the mountains rose high again in a formation like a crooked finger that beckoned them toward the heart of ogre territory. In the distance to the west, great shaggy trees, shadows upon shadows, loomed. The swamp. Grallik shuddered at the thought of braving the harsh, wet land.
Direfang had said he intended to take them that way, through that wet hell so different from the arid desolation of Steel Town. Cypress trees dominated, giants that stretched well more than a dozen men tall. There were maples and oaks too, but mostly cypress and willows. Old black willows and willow birches stood tall, their lofty trunks surrounded by dark water that smelled stagnant.
Grallik thought the place should smell worse, all the standing water and rotting wood. Instead, the odors were heady and not terribly unpleasant. He smelled flowers everywhere; the flooded forest teemed with them. The odors from the largest-where the goblins hovered near-made him feel drunk. The wizard decided he wouldn’t mind journeying through that place on foot if it meant keeping company with Mudwort. He just wished he could do it magically rather than slogging through the difficult place. He was not looking forward to the physical journey.
He heard Boliver say something in the goblin tongue then repeat it. “Very, very far, this place is. Two years, Direfang thinks. Too far indeed. The clans will not walk so far.”
Grallik agreed. His feet-his desperately aching feet and desperately tired legs-could not carry him there.
“So tired,” Grallik whispered. The words twisted around his ears as if the wind had blown them.
Then the goblins drew the last of Grallik’s strength to continue powering their spell, and the wizard pitched forward, falling heavily to the ground. Grallik was sound asleep well before Pippa stole his vegetable basket and pranced away.
DISSENSION
Saro-Saro wore the green blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, fastened with a silver pin in the shape of an anvil that he’d polished with a little spit. Pippa had taken the pin off one of the dead dwarves and given it to Saro-Saro as a gift. “For the greatest clan leader of all.” The old goblin also had replaced the tunic he’d stolen many days earlier from an ogre village with a better and cleaner one that had been taken from the dwarves.
Dyed a rich brown, the tunic was made of a heavy, coarse material. He liked the way it felt against his chest, and it was one of the finer garments brought away from Reorx’s Cradle; it was only right that Saro-Saro should have the best. It fit much better than his old garment, which was infested with fleas. It was slightly big around the waist, but he tied it with a thin cord to keep his legs from getting tangled. The small bumps in the fabric formed patterns of swirling lines that he thought might be drawings of vines. He’d also been given a pair of nice dwarven sandals, the straps tightened enough so they would not fall off.