“Like we should be flying,” Ragh muttered.
“We agreed that it’s safer this way,” Dhamon rumbled.
“Besides, I’d rather keep my feet on the ground,” said Feril.
Dhamon took the lead into the pass. Tucking his wings into his sides, he squeezed through some parts of the pass with inches to spare, followed by Feril and Ragh, the latter making considerably more noise as gravel crunched beneath his scaly feet. Dhamon purposely stepped on sharp rocks as he went, relishing the faint bite of the stone beneath the pads of his claws. His armorlike scales inured him to a great many such things. He could feel pain sometimes, and he could feel a raging storm, the wind whipping around his snout and against his eyes, but the mere touch of a mortal? He couldn’t, for example, feel Feril’s fingers when she brushed at his scales. He wished he could remember what her touch felt like.
If he were human, all the softer sensations would return.
As he covered ground he could hear the constant chatter and bickering of Feril and Ragh close behind.
“Do you really think the ghost’s spell will work?”
“We stand a pretty good chance for success,” Feril answered the sivak. “I believe Obelia is…was…a sorcerer of some merit and…”
“Dhamon told me there were quite a few ghosts at the bottom of the lake and that a number of them were not so pleasant and helpful as this Obelia.”
“They were mostly Qualinesti elves who stayed behind when the dragon attacked the city, as well as some Knights of Neraka who had fought for Beryl.” Feril readjusted the pack on her back. “Oh yes, and there were specters of goblins and horses, all sorts of creatures that were destroyed by the lake when the dragon died.”
“How did you manage to coax one of the ghosts to come with you?”
“Obelia wanted to help. He asked to come along.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.” Ragh shuddered. “The dead usually stay where they died, anyone knows that.” He was thinking of the chaos wights on the island of Nostar—those undead that had nearly killed him, Dhamon, and Fiona a long time ago. “The dead don’t often prefer to mingle with the living.”
“Obelia is different. Anyway, I’d mingle with however many ghosts it took to make Dhamon right again. I’d mingle with demons from the Abyss.”
“I agree,” Ragh conceded, “but that ghost…”
“Obelia. The spirit’s name is Obelia, and you’ll see him again, soon. When I smell water, I’ll scry on that scale again, just to make sure we’re headed in the right direction, and Obelia will help us determine just how far we are from it.”
The mention of water made Dhamon increase his pace. He was thirsty. His stomach was rumbling, causing the ground to vibrate. The bears had satisfied him for a while, but he was growing hungry. His nostrils quivering, he prowled the air for any scent of mountain goats. No such luck. Soon enough, though, they reached a mountain stream that cut parallel to the pass, and Dhamon and the others drank their fill. Feril pulled the flask out of her satchel and released Obelia.
“I’m going to stretch my wings and scout ahead,” Dhamon said. He was still hoping for goats and had just picked up a strong odor indicating that there might be a small herd reasonably close by. Feril, Ragh, and the spirit sorcerer could handle the scrying without him. “I won’t be gone long.” Then he took to the sky and headed upwind of the scent, throwing all of his efforts into suppressing his fear aura so the goats would not smell him coming and scatter.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wind tease the underside of his wings and the sun warm his face. He understood why Ragh envied flying, and for more than a few minutes he simply relished the glory of flight. It wasn’t until his stomach rumbled a little louder than he was reminded of those delicious goats.
He spotted them now. There were nearly two dozen in the herd, one of them an impressive ram with large curling horns. They were perched atop a southern ridge, the ram holding its magnificent head high. Dhamon’s mouth watered in anticipation as he dived toward the animals, making sure the wind was blowing in his direction. The goats would be caught unawares.
Obelia, out of the flask, seemed pleased. His gaze lingered on the cloudless sky and the walls of the mountain pass for several minutes before he channeled his magical energy into the Kagonesti, who was kneeling next to the stream.
“Is there a bit of a breeze?” the spirit asked as, gradually, the image of a dragon’s scale hove into view. “I can see small ripples on the water.”
“A slight breeze,” Feril answered. The reflection of the draconian appeared superimposed on the scale’s image, as Ragh was peering over her shoulder, trying to get a good look at the scrying magic. “Just a slight stirring is all, Obelia.”
“What does it feel like, this slight breeze that ruffles your hair?” the ghost asked. “It’s been so long since I have felt anything like that. I don’t remember.”
“The breeze gently caresses the back of my neck, and it brings the fragrance of mountain laurel that must be growing nearby, probably on one of the high ledges,” Feril replied. “It’s a faint, sweet fragrance, and when I breathe deeply, I can taste the sweetness of the flowers on my tongue. The air is cooler here than in the woods, as the walls of the pass shade us from the brunt of the sun. The stream is cool, too, and feels good against my fingers.” She went on at some length about other smells and sensations, bringing smiles and sighs of contentment from Obelia, then grumbling from Ragh when she mentioned his acrid scent.
While Feril talked, she also focused on the scale they were scrying.
“I think it’s lodged in that crevice,” Ragh observed, “lodged deep and tight. It’s as though the mountain shifted at some point and is trapping it. I don’t see a gap between it and the rock. Probably that’s why it’s still there and why some passing hill dwarf hasn’t grabbed it up and fashioned it into souvenir armor or a shield.”
“If it’s wedged tight, that is good,” Obelia said. “Feril possesses nature magic, and she can shift the stone or turn it to melting liquid if she needs to.”
“Dhamon could smash the rock,” Ragh offered.
“The stone has a peculiar scent,” Feril continued, “clean and dusty at the same time. It smells old, though I doubt there are many who could guess the age, and the dirt on the trail leading up to it…I can smell it, too. It’s not as old.”
“Big deal,” Ragh whispered. “So it’s old.”
He glanced at the Kagonesti, seeing the faint lines around the edges of her eyes and around her lips. She was looking pretty old herself. The sivak wondered if Dhamon had noticed.
As Feril’s fingers stirred the image of the scale in the stream, her mind guided the magic. She watched as the view pulled back and the scale grew smaller. Now, at the top, she saw the spiral rock formation of the dwarf lovers entwined forever. At the same time, she spotted living dwarves moving along the pass beyond the ancient formation. They rounded a bend and disappeared from her view.
“Look, there is the formation we seek,” Ragh said. He peered toward the east. “I can barely make out the top of it. That means we’re not far away—two hours, I’d guess, maybe three. Mere heartbeats if Dhamon flew us there. Those dwarves are probably mining nearby, coming up for some sun and for something to eat.”
“The coolness of the water feels good against my arms, Obelia,” Feril said, ignoring Ragh. She cupped some water in her hands and drank greedily. “It tastes quite good, sweet, and it refreshes me. I can feel it sliding down my throat.”
“Tell me more,” the ghost urged. “Tell me everything you feel, my elf-fish.”
“Odd, the stone beneath my knees is trembling slightly,” Feril continued. “It is not an unpleasant sensation, but still…”
Suddenly, Ragh felt the ground shaking, too. The draconian leaped aside as bits of rock broke loose from the walls and rained down, some pieces landing on the trail and others splashing in the stream.