"Could've fooled me. Get dressed. Hennario's daughter wants to see us and I'm pretty sure Lady Gabrionel will prefer you with trousers."
"We've got a bigger problem than dealing with the Shipmaster's spoiled little princess."
"Careful, Losther,” warned Ayron. “Talk like that will have the welcome mat pulled out from under our feet."
A lighted torch of an idea popped into the air unseen over Garrich's head. “Pack up your belongings,” he instructed the Elf, using the front door this time to head back inside.
Ayron scratched his narrow chin. “You planning to take a trip somewhere?"
Paraphrasing an old drunk, Garrich answered from the doorway, “We're buggering off outta here."
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Chapter Thirty Three
"What's the problem?"
Hennario met Maldoch's enquiring gaze in the shuttered shipboard lamplight, the diffuse yellow hue emphasizing the spellcaster's beaky nose and demanding eyes. “Unwanted company,” he said, his manner conveying irritation more than worry. “Douse the running lanterns, boys. We're going invisible."
The ship went black and rolled off the crest of a wave, Maldoch bumping into the treelike J'tard. “Smile so that I can see you in the dark,” the wizard rudely admonished, pushing himself off the blocky Troll. “You're blacker than a lump of coal down a mineshaft."
The progressive Illebardians extinguished lamps below decks as well to be on the safe side. Unlike their northern kin they valued the usefulness of fire and showed no compunction burning trees for fuel.
"Who are we trying to avoid?” Maldoch rasped to Hennario in a hiss of annoyance. “We shouldn't be running into trouble this far south.” He despised complications.
"Losther warships,” was the unwelcome reply.
Rejoining Illebard's gerent at the starboard railing, the wizard searched the moonless sea with his stern gaze. Patchy starlight filtered from out of the cloudy night, graying segments of the obsidian ocean. He glimpsed the bobbling lights of a Goblin fleet winking faintly against the blackened coastline.
"Those freebooters aren't even trying to be sneaky,” the Shipmaster said in a disgusted tone. “Lights blazing, ragged formation ... they're behaving as if out on a pleasure cruise. It's seems they want to announce their presence."
"Can you count how many?” asked J'tard, standing well back from the railing. The voluminous ocean, an immeasurable body of undrinkable saltwater, filled the Desertlander with unease. That dread escalated when the colorless palette of night tinted the deep with its inky dye. Hailing from a land where sand behaved with oceanic properties, cresting in dunes modeled on wind-whipped waves, he could not equate the vast seascape with being purely liquid.
"Enough to be a nuisance for my Squadron,” ascertained Hennario. “This doesn't have the feel of an ordinary hit-and-sail raid. Too many ships involved. We'll have to come about and race those Corsairs to Nhern. I need to raise the alarm."
"Only after you drop us off further up the coast,” the wizard reminded him.
"No time for that, Maldoch,” disputed the Shipmaster. “That flotilla will be rounding Dunderoth cape before month's end. After scuttling Faerohc's blockade ships, it'd be gratifying to make sure there's a welcoming committee waiting around the corner to sink them."
"Hennario, those black cliffs out there are C'irra Gord Point. We're halfway to Jameru Harbor. I can't afford that kind of delay."
"Wizard, on board ship the captain's word is final."
"Alrighty. Can the captain make this bathtub with its patched bed sheet for a sail go any faster just by telling it to?"
Hennario's flagship had embarrassingly not been made seaworthy again in time for this particular voyage as she was currently being modified with a few surprise improvements, necessitating his commandeering a slower vessel. He contested, “At least we won't be sailing windward on the return leg. We'll make better time for sure."
"But still not be fast enough to beat those swifter Corsairs to the Gulf of Mer'ul, I'll bet."
The begrudging Shipmaster admitted defeat. “I suppose not. Nhern should be warned though."
"Leave that to me. I'll put Faerohc in the know,” Maldoch assured him with a fumbled pat on the shoulder in the contrived dark.
"The floating head talkie spell?"
"But of course."
The seafaring Elf excused himself immediately, scratching at his collar as he edged along the blacked out deck toward the prow. “That magic always creeps me out. For some reason it makes my neck itch."
—
"Magnificence, you're needed up on deck."
Whiling away the humdrum hours associated with lengthy sea voyages by immersing himself in relevant reading material, the bookworm wizard did not register the summons at first. Sourcing potentially useful spells in the hallowed White Grimoire, he only tore himself away from the engrossing catalogue of incantations when a following knock rapped insistently on the cabin door.
"Magnificent One, there is something the Shipmaster really wishes you to see."
"I'll be up in a moment,” Maldoch told J'tard with an irksome sigh, finishing up and returning the shrunk ivory leather bound tome to the inside of his sleeve.
He was finding himself at a real disadvantage. The spells of Good were largely confined to constructive uses generally not on a magical par with the damaging enchantments Evil employed: it is simpler to destroy than create. Maldoch was going up against Omelchor with the odds stacked in his defector brother's favor. Lately outsmarted by the sorcerer at every turn, and doubting his own ability to counteract the baddies, his pet prophecy was currently no help either. The Codretic Text refused to bestow any new insights to be added to the shortlist of decoded predictions so far. The Dissension Scroll and Shamanist Ode were not better prospects, remaining for the most part steeped in mumbo jumbo and innuendo. Ambiguity was not the best springboard for confidence.
Eyes straying to the sea chart spread out on the tabletop, made readable by the book's removal, the wizard rechecked the course Hennario plotted in port before shipping out. An arrow-straight track was charcoaled in, running dead parallel to the undulating western seaboard approximately forty leagues out into the open ocean. Farther up the map, that line swung shoreward at a sharp right angle to strike a nameless beach roughly opposite a towering landmark ominously marked The Eyrie. East of that coastal mountain spread Darkling Forest, the subterranean retreat of Underland lurking centrally within.
Gnomes.
The very name of the troglodytes epitomized their clandestine lifestyle and reputation, its brevity touting suspicion. From the outset the spellcasters on conflicting sides knew where they stood with the majority of the Fellow Races. Dwarfs, Men, and Elves championed for Good in a loosely allied triumvirate, Goblins alone backed Evil, whilst Trolls—officially neutral—privately lent support to either cause depending on which side of the Dead River they dwelt. The Underlanders were the unknown variable in any head count. Where their allegiance lay was anyone's guess. Probably Omelchor was himself contemplating conscripting the Gnomes, had maybe already beaten Maldoch to the punch. Whatever political atmosphere awaited him in Underland, the goodly wizard needed to draft a Gnome supporter into their questing company. Success hinged on collecting a willing representative from each of the eminent peoples. That much was certain. Then there was the availability of the Gnomes fabled talisman...
The grating of a mug sliding across the lipped tabletop seesawing from the constant roll of the ship sidetracked the wizard. Picking it up, he swirled the dregs of a dark brown beverage around the cup's bottom. Coffee ground from baked acorns was not a patch on herbal tea, but beggars cannot be choosers. Setting the pewter coffee mug back down, a relic from bygone trade with northern Terrath, Maldoch decided against getting a refill when going topside. It was no real substitute for tea leaves.
With his centuries of life weighing him down, the august mage swapped the dingy lamplight of the windowless cabin fo
r the warming spring sunshine bathing the quarterdeck. He smiled ruefully upon realizing that his travels through the sun-drenched Great Desertland and magically tempered climate of Gwilhaire Wood meant he had skipped winter entirely. Normally that did not bother the average person, but Magnificent Maldoch was far from ordinary. The invigorating chill of winter infused him with a revamped aliveness the renewing spring failed to deliver.
After all this is over, I'm heading up north to the frozen Barren Wilds on retreat the glum wizard promised himself. I'm way overdue for a holiday.
His untied blonde-white hair streaming behind him in the headwind like a ship's pennant, Hennario sailed hands on, manning the tiller. The hulking Troll, looking decidedly green around the gills, clutched the railing with one hand as he tottered over, using his revered club as a mundane walking stick to steady his wobbly gait on the heaving deck.
"Haven't found your sea legs yet?"
"Nor my appetite either, wizard,” J'tard softly lamented, rubbing his queasy stomach. “What goes down must come up."
Maldoch enjoyed the chuckle. “Where are we, Shipmaster?” he asked, the banal sea offering no clues.
"Top end of Rocky Sheer,” replied Hennario. They had been making lousy time, despite the storm season ending. Contrary winds were obliging the master sailor to arduously tack his way north, doubling the sea miles voyaged. That exasperating state of affairs was only going to improve once their vessel cleared Iberic's Claw to be hustled along by more favorable winds on a straighter course.
Gazing starboard, his cloak billowing in the ocean's breath, the scanning wizard glimpsed nothing but a field of whitecaps on the horizonless Sea of Storms. Unafraid of the terrifying deep, home to leviathans capable of consuming ocean-going vessels whole, not to mention the howling Banshees fortunately deterred from making a show stopping manifestation by Maldoch's presence aboard ship, Hennario sailed out of sight of the comforting shoreline and its navigational beacons to avoid entanglements with the superstitious Goblin privateers hugging the coast. Maldoch knew better than to question the Shipmaster's estimate of their position. Illebard's ruler possessed intimate knowledge of Terrath's considerable coastline and could probably circumnavigate the continent blindfolded. He trusted the Elf sailor never to attempt that.
Scheduled landfall loomed a full two months away yet. “Is that why you've interrupted my reading, to point out a portion of coast that's too far away to see?” groused Maldoch.
"Did we get out on the wrong side of the hammock this morning?” wisecracked the Shipmaster. Relinquishing steerage to his waiting helmsman, the muscled Elf mariner joined his passengers and gestured with a nod to what lay beyond the railing. “Take a gander out there, about five points astern."
"What am I supposed to be looking for?” grumped the wizard.
"White specks on the horizon line."
"Two pair of eyes are better than one,” decided Maldoch, conscripting the Troll to lend a hand. Squinting hard, the ship's gently rolling hull thudding dully against the swishing waves, J'tard nudged him and pointed to the spot Hennario was indicating. There, barely distinguishable from the foaming tops of the surrounding wavelets, snowy dots wavered between the blurry joining of sea and sky.
"Seagulls,” interpreted Maldoch.
"You need glasses, you old albatross,” denounced Hennario. “Those are sails."
"I'll take your word for it. More pesky Corsairs?"
"Mmm."
"They're leagues away. What's your worry?"
Plainly troubled, the Shipmaster made public his misgivings. “For the past two hours I've kept tight watch on those vessels. I did a numbers check and gave up counting after reaching a hundred. Add that conservative figure to the two dozen we slipped by in the night down in southern waters and likely well over half the Losther fleet has put to sea."
Maldoch shrugged uncaringly. “Less for us to avoid the further north we sail."
Hennario ran his sea-roughened hands back through his hair, quoting an Illebard axiom. “Wizard, you can't see the ocean for the waves."
"What's there to fathom? The flotilla you snuck us past in the dark is the vanguard for that armada assembling off the Sheer."
Shifting his gaze from the broad ocean view to the uncomprehending mage, the premier Sea Elf said, “I'd agree with that conclusion if that fleet wasn't stationary."
Shading his eyes against the sun-strike on the swells, Maldoch frowned. “They're not moving?"
"Holding position it seems,” affirmed the Shipmaster. “Or patrolling the immediate waters off that stretch of coast."
"Why on Terrath are they doing that?” puzzled the wizard. “There's nothing of interest landside except stone country and swampland...” He abruptly trailed off, picturing the terrestrial expanse of the westland in a purely geographical context. Enlightenment slapped him in the mush like a wet fish. Exclaiming “Gortal's Cleft,” in a fretful mutter, Maldoch slapped his hands down hard on the tarnished rail out of raw frustration. “Those sneaky sods are buggerizing Anarica first!” he hollered to the surging ocean.
After he prudently backed J'tard away from the vexed wizard as Maldoch raged, Hennario filled the deadpan Troll in. “It's a probable invasion fleet; stock transports, troopships—all protected by the screen of escorting warships we can see. The Goblins have become audacious, taking advantage of the foolishness of Men. Karavere's Coastal Guard confines itself to monitoring shipping along the upper eastern shoreline. Never mind the fact Anarica possesses an admittedly narrow sea border out west in need of vigilance. Leave it to the Sea Elves to cover their wake."
Maldoch's ranting intruded. “Ahnorr's launching a springtime offensive, just as I forecasted. But at neither of the places anyone expects. Dwarfs and Men are concentrating troop emplacements at the obvious points of entry, Frelok Pass and Montaine Divide. Nobody dreamed the Goblins would use their boaties to go canoeing south. What's Omel playing at? By rights his lackeys ought to be eyeing up northland territory, not fooling around opening a pointless front against the realm of Men. What he's after is stashed away in the Northern Heights, unless he hasn't guessed that and is planning to cover all his bases by scouring every mountain range between Solke Dharr and the Frigid Coast for...” He muzzled his anger-loosened tongue before he could disclose a secret that the prominent two spellcasters alone were privy to.
J'tard rubbed musingly at his massively square jaw. C'marl had taken him aside before his departure from Rohal Ak Jubai to have a quiet word concerning wizard mystique. “They work to their own hidden agendas, Maldoch and his brothers,” he cautioned the younger Troll. “Keep Desertland interests at the forefront of your mind. Lend aid when required, but have a care not to get mired in a quicksand of contesting magicians."
Feeling his feet beginning to sink, J'tard took comfort from the fact that wizards were not unique in hustling private schemes. Trolls could be equally underhanded.
Maldoch deflected any awkward queries that might be thrown his way. “Hennario, how many warriors could the Goblins land on the coast?"
"Going by ship numbers, anything from three and a half thousand up"’ calculated the Shipmaster.
The wizard beamed a puckish grin. “That's bound to give the Strantharians a nasty headache."
"It surely will if you don't warn them first. But don't forget there are other landing spots to consider. If the Losthers target only Carallord, that fleet might be aiming to ship its cargo of warriors to the eastern seaboard someplace above the Sprinth Channel."
"Why stop at Berhanth? While they're in the neighborhood, they may well elect to bottle up Karavere too,” postulated Maldoch.
"My more immediate concern is safeguarding Elven waters."
Shaking his head at southern shortsightedness, the wizard belittled Hennario's worry. “Illebard is better defended than your daughter's virginity, Shipmaster."
At mention of Gabrionel in such a lurid context, her doting father trembled with indignation.
"Stop bristlin
g like a posturing porcupine,” Maldoch chastised him. “All I'm saying is that you're the best mariner afloat in the Three Seas. No Goblin buccaneer worth his salt will pit his sailing skills against yours. Dwarfs are confirmed landlubbers; Men wallow about in outsized rowboats. They make easier marks for pirates than even the worst Elf sailor on his poorest day."
"Some of the deckhands down at Nhern are pretty klutzy,” Hennario rued of his countrymen.
Wanting to stave off any bickering, J'tard suggested, “Maybe the Goblins are doing a dry run."
"A dress rehearsal before the main event,” ruminated Maldoch. ‘You're the yachtie, Hennario. Is it likely?"
"The Privateers usually operate independently or in small squadrons. Working cooperatively in large, allied groups is foreign to them, as it is to all Losthers. This could merely be an essential training exercise, or an out-and-out show of force."
"Or the real deal,” fretted Maldoch. “The problem is we're faced with guesswork. We don't know either destination or intent."
"Then cast the net wide,” urged Hennario. “But do me the favor of going below decks this time to place those oversea calls, wizard. It's rather off-putting seeing your head wreathed in blue light. Running aground from being distracted won't sound good in my memoir songs."
When Maldoch failed to stir, Hennario prompted him. “You are intending to alert Stranth Tor at least?"
Buffeted by the northeasterly, Maldoch concentrated on tucking his flapping beard into the folds of his ballooning cloak in preference to answering the Shipmaster.
"Are you that intimidated by the Horse Lady?” For an Elf shipping lord, Hennario seemed surprisingly well versed in the repute of the landlocked marquise.
Deigning at last to reply, all the imperious wizard chose to say was, “I have every confidence that the Lancers will discover any possible beachhead and repulse landed Goblins without requiring a helping hand from yours truly."
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