by Tim Pratt
"You think we'll see wonders there, then?" Rodrick said. "A new vista over every ridge?"
"No," Hrym said, "but I think you'll be terrified enough by the growls coming from the icy fog all around that you'll forget to be bored."
∗ ∗ ∗
"It's not as if the borders are well marked in this area, master," Zaqen said, peering at an old map rolled out atop a flat stone near the edge of the campsite. The map was illuminated by some sort of wizardly light, but as was typical with Zaqen's magics, it wasn't proper white or fiery yellow light, but rather a sickly greenish globe that bobbed disconcertingly in the air beside her head. She drew her finger along the path of a blue line that squiggled toward the top of the map while Rodrick squinted and tried to make sense of what he was looking at.
Obed didn't bother to look at the map. That, presumably, was what he had Zaqen for.
"The last good road petered out this morning, though," Zaqen said, "and if we're not in Loric Fells now, we will be soon. I think we've seen our last glimpse of civilization for a while. The Dagger River becomes the Wyvernkill River here—ha, good, presumably all the wyverns will be dead then, that's a comfort, though I wonder what killed them. We can follow that for a while. I know you prefer to stay close to water as long as possible, though we should avoid getting too close to the fortress of Rookwarden, which lies along the banks of the Wyvernkill. There's no telling what monsters inhabit the place now, but it's typically been home to goblin chieftains and hag rulers. The sooner we angle westward, the sooner we'll return to something approximating the civilized world."
Obed sighed heavily, as if geography itself were conspiring against him, and trudged toward the river.
"If the Fells are so wild, where did you get a map?" Rodrick said.
Zaqen shrugged. "It's amazing what money can buy. This is a map from one of the expeditions made by Loric himself. I trust it in terms of gross geography ...and very little else. I'm sure most of the goblin settlements have moved and shifted as the tribes made war on one another, and besides Rookwarden, there is literally no point of interest marked."
"Loric, eh?" Rodrick said. "What did he do to get the place named after him?"
"He was the closest thing the place ever had to a human ruler, though he's long dead. Anyone who stays in this wilderness for long is apt to die—and that includes most of the natives. Fortunately for us, we're just passing through."
"How long will this passing through take?"
"Oh, it's no more than a hundred miles," she said airily. "Over entirely wild terrain. Then we'll be out of Loric Fells and into the safety of ...well, nowhere in particular. Unclaimed lands, essentially. I hope we'll pass well north of the ruins of Heibarr, which has no living citizens at all, and more ghosts than many cities have rats. Then there's a vast forest we can either pass through or skirt around, then Pitax, and then the Stolen Lands, which are practically part of Brevoy, and then Brevoy itself."
"And once we're in Brevoy it's all hot meals and soft beds, no doubt," Rodrick said.
"More like danger and tomb-raiding and people trying actively to kill us in particular, instead of merely trying to kill us because we happened to pass by. But I'm not worried. We have your good right arm to protect us."
"My left isn't so bad either," Rodrick said.
"No worse than your right, anyway," Hrym said. "Which isn't to say either one of them is particularly good."
Chapter Eight
Sword in the Mist
By noon the next day, there was no doubt they'd entered Loric Fells. The weather turned markedly colder, and the ground became more steep and wild, with a creeping, icy mist clinging to the ground even long after the sun came up. Camping in this place would be hellish: the freezing fog could conceal any manner of monsters, ruining any hope of sleeping with a sense of security.
"Isn't this air refreshing!" Hrym boomed. "And bracing!"
Rodrick shushed him. "Do you want to call every goblin within a hundred miles down on us?"
"Goblins, feh. Do you know how many goblins I've killed?"
"No, actually." Zaqen guided her camel closer. They were all riding in cozier formation than usual, with the horses more willing to tolerate Zaqen's company. They clearly smelled and heard things that bothered them more than she did.
"Well, none, actually, that I can recall," Hrym said. "Zero goblins. Don't you think I should rectify that? Goblins have lots of gold, don't they?"
"I imagine they take whatever they can loot off the bodies," Rodrick said. "Gold included. So you may continue to live in hope. But what are you talking about, refreshing air? You don't even breathe."
"I am not without senses," Hrym said. "Do I not feel?"
"Oh, I know you can feel," Rodrick said. "Did you know, Zaqen, that Hrym let me sharpen him with a whetstone for months before letting it slip that, being magical, his edge would never grow dull? He just liked the sensation." Rodrick shuddered.
"I miss that whetstone," Hrym said wistfully. "I'd grown really quite fond of that whetstone. I still wonder whatever happened to her, sometimes."
∗ ∗ ∗
Just past midafternoon, the goblins came. They didn't attack in the manner Rodrick had expected, rushing down in a great howling horde of primitive weapons and gnashing teeth and stinking rags, overwhelming the party with monstrous force. They assembled along a ridge to the west, perhaps fifty of the creatures, lined up and looking down on the party, and conversing among themselves in chattering, wheedling voices. It was like being watched by a class of hideous schoolchildren. The tallest goblins were barely over three feet high, their heads like great oversized melons, but more amply supplied with teeth. They wore furs and leathers—what kind of creatures the leather came from was perhaps best left unconsidered—and carried surprisingly nice armaments, polearms and axes and spears, doubtless looted from the remains of expeditionary forces that had fallen to their horde over the years. Several of them were riding dog-sized, ratlike mounts that looked mean enough to tussle with wolves and win.
Rodrick considered the terrain. He was no tactician, but it didn't take a military genius to know that his party's position was not advantageous. The goblins had the high ground. Rodrick's group had been following the river, as Obed insisted, so they were cut off from retreat on the east by water. North was just more rough terrain, with ankle-twisting rocks and holes hidden by the clinging mist. They could try to turn the horses and race back the way they'd come, but they'd just be run down and routed by the horde. There was always the option of charging directly at the goblins, Rodrick supposed, which would have the advantage of finishing things quickly.
"Do you think you can kill a small goblin army?" Rodrick said. "By yourself?"
"Certainly," Hrym said.
"Without me and the other mortals dying in the process?"
"What," Hrym said, "without any of you dying? I suppose I can try."
"I hope you can win," Rodrick said. "Unless you fancy being part of a goblin's treasure trove."
"Gold is gold," Hrym said. "I'll take whatever golden bed I can find."
"You'd miss my conversation," Rodrick said.
"Why don't they attack us?" Zaqen said, sounding more curious than frightened.
"Why should they?" Rodrick said. "They have us hugely outnumbered, pinned between them and the river. They can take their time. They're probably discussing who gets to eat which of us first. I'm sure if we were a larger force, they would have ambushed us, but as it is ..." He shrugged. "They're not worried. I'm not even sure they're contemptuous. They're probably just wondering what possessed three humans to go wandering around in the Fells. Or else they're worried that we're bait in some kind of a trap, and that we have a division of mounted cavalry hidden in the mist over there." Rodrick cocked his head. "I suppose we should start trying to kill them."
"Goblins are superstitious," Zaqen said. "A sufficient display of magic might send them scattering away." She glanced at Obed, who wasn't paying any attention to the
goblins at all, instead gazing at the river. "Master? Do you have any thoughts?"
Obed turned his hooded head and peered up at the creatures. "I will parley," he said, in the tones of a man grudgingly agreeing to do a tedious chore. He swung down from his horse and began trudging westward toward the goblins before Rodrick could think of a response, rational or otherwise.
"They'll kill him," Rodrick said. "They'll eat him." He paused. "Do I still get paid, if he gets eaten?"
"My master is very good at staying alive," Zaqen said, but even she was worried.
"What does he mean parley?" Rodrick said.
"It means to have a courteous conversation with one's enemy," Hrym said, and Rodrick growled.
"I know what the word means. But what good can it possibly do? They probably don't even speak the same—"
Obed spoke, more loudly than Rodrick had ever heard him speak before, and the language was a strange one, full of guttural gurglings and high-pitched wheezes and the clacking of teeth. The effect on the goblins was electric: they began milling around frantically, then moved apart, letting one of their number move to the front. He was hugely fat—and given that these were creatures who could eat their own weight in a day and still be hungry for breakfast in the morning, that was astonishing—and he rode a goblin dog nearly the size of a pony. The fat goblin barked something down at Obed, and the priest responded in a tone that was forceful and confident.
The goblin war chief flinched, looked around at his fellows, then gazed up at the sky. He growled something, and Obed approached more closely, reaching into his robe. He passed a small object over to the goblin—was it a wand of some kind, or a small rod?—and the war chief took it reverentially. He pointed it at the sky, and a moment later, a gout of flame burst forth from the end of the rod.
"Oh, good," Hrym said. "Obed has given the goblin horde magical fire. That's marvelous."
"What are you worried about?" Rodrick tried to hide his dismay and worry. "You can't melt."
"No, but magical fire can melt my ice, which gives us something of a disadvantage."
"My master knows what's he's doing," Zaqen said. "Besides, there are only fifty of them or so. I can kill...oh, ten. You two do, say, twenty each ..."
"They also have those dogs," Rodrick said.
"All right, if you insist," Zaqen said. "You can also kill the dogs. I'm a reasonable woman."
But Obed turned away from the goblin horde and began making his way carefully down the hill back to them, and the goblins melted away like mist—not like the mist in Loric Fells, obviously, which never melted away, but ordinary mist.
"That's it?" Rodrick said. "You gave them a gift, and they went away? Why didn't they kill us and take the wand?"
Obed paused beside his mount. "Those of us who worship gods can sometimes find common ground, Rodrick."
"You can't tell me those goblins worship Gozreh?" Rodrick said.
"Many goblins live near the sea," Zaqen said thoughtfully. "I suppose it makes a certain amount of sense—"
"I thought goblins all worshiped, I don't know, demons!" Rodrick said.
"Bigot," Obed said, and climbed onto his horse. He settled himself, took the reins in his hands, and said, "No, they do not worship Gozreh. They have other allegiances. But there are alliances among the gods, which sometimes translate to alliances between their mortal followers. You look at the goblins and see monsters, but they are creatures of nature, worshipers of the forests and caves and streams and wild places—and the gods of those places. The wand I gave them was not a gift, but a payment. They will pass the word among their allied tribes that we are to be given safe passage. Which, for goblins, merely means they will not attempt to kill us, not that they will defend us. But I will take whatever help I can. I am making your job easier once again, mercenary."
"So we can ride through Loric Fells safely?" Rodrick said. "That's a nice trick."
"No, it's only goblins who won't try to kill us," Hrym said. "And only some goblins, at that. There are still trolls, hags, and shambling heaps of carnivorous vegetation to worry about."
Rodrick shook his head. "Even so ...perhaps I should reconsider religion."
"If I were you," Hrym said, "I would hesitate to join any religion that would actually accept you as a member."
"Keep feeling superior, sword. At least I don't lust after whetstones."
Hrym groaned. "You had to bring her up again, didn't you?"
∗ ∗ ∗
The river gradually widened and became less a great road of water and more a low, boggy expanse, its edges softening and blurring until the once-distinct banks became a marsh of mud and reeds. There was still deep water farther out, but it flowed so sluggishly it might as well have been a lake. Night began to fall, but there was literally nowhere suitable to make camp, as it took all their effort to avoid accidentally becoming mired in stinking mud. The fact that the ground was covered in swirling white mist didn't help matters.
"I could ice over a bit of the mud," Hrym said. "You could camp on that. Solid ground, at your service."
"Ah, yes, nothing finer than sleeping on a bed of ice," Rodrick said. "Quite cozy."
"You could lay down leafy boughs, or something," Hrym said. "Even light a fire. My ice is magical, and doesn't easily melt."
"We will keep going," Zaqen said. "The master is confident that we will find a place to camp shortly."
"I don't know why he thinks that," Rodrick said. "It seems—"
"There," Obed said, and pointed into the river.
Rodrick squinted. There was an island there about thirty yards out, and it was clearly solid enough to support a number of good-sized trees. "You want us to camp there? It doesn't leave a lot of options for retreat, being surrounded by water on all sides."
"Yes, but it's unlikely a passing troll will wander through, either." Zaqen sighed. "My master loves swimming, but I don't. And I have no idea how the camel will react to that. Where she's from, it's rare to find a body of water you can't step across. Horses can swim, can't they?"
"Swimming won't be necessary," Rodrick said. "Hrym's kind offer to give us all hypothermia gives me a better idea. Can you build us a bridge, old friend?"
"‘Old friend,' he says, when he wants something," Hrym said.
Rodrick held the sword out at arm's length, aiming it toward the river, and vapor began to swirl around the blade. "It's easy, with this mist," Hrym said. "Lots of moisture to work with." Indeed, it was almost as if a portion of the swirling mist near the ground hardened, growing stiff, creating a path perhaps ten feet wide that stretched all the way from the marshy water's edge to the island in the deep water.
"Will it support our weight?" Zaqen said.
"You could build a castle on top of it," Hrym said. "Fear not. But watch your step. I aimed for a certain roughness of texture, but it's still ice, and apt to be slippery."
Zaqen climbed down off her camel and probed at the path with the toe of her boot. She grunted. "All right." She took her animal's reins and led it onto the ice. The camel followed her with no more complaint than usual. The ice didn't crack or shift at all. Hrym did good work.
Obed glanced at the ice bridge contemptuously and just stomped off into the water, wading alongside the bridge until he caught up with Zaqen, his head roughly level with her ankles. He tore his robe off and threw it across the ice, where the wizard picked it up without complaint. Obed then dove into the water and began steadily swimming toward the small island.
"I'll just get your horses, then," Rodrick called. "And my horse. All three horses. No need to thank me, or even ask me, really, it's all part of the service."
"Hmm," Hrym said from behind him.
"I know," Rodrick muttered. "Saddlebags full of gold, a bridge you can melt with a thought, dumping the wizard in the water. But we wouldn't make it far in this country, especially in the dark. And there's still that artifact ..."
"Yes, all right," Hrym said. "You can't blame a sword for being tempted."
<
br /> Rodrick tethered his gelding to the packhorse, which was already tethered to Obed's mount. He led the three of them across the icy bridge, crystals crunching beneath his feet, but it was a rough enough surface to provide decent footing. It was slow going with the horses, but eventually he made it across. By the time he led the horses onto solid ground, Zaqen was already setting up camp near the remains of a lightning-shattered dead tree. The tree must have once shaded a great expanse of the island, sucking up all the available sunlight, because the area around it was relatively clear of undergrowth. Obed was nowhere to be seen—presumably he was communing with the gods and washing his hair and so on.
"I suppose I'd better check the island," Rodrick said. "Make sure there aren't any monsters in the vicinity."
"Besides us, you mean," Zaqen said, and tittered. "It's hardly necessary. The master will set up wards to protect us, and the island is hardly big enough to hold much in the way of dangerous wildlife. And he can sense life auras—"
"You hired me to protect you," Rodrick said. "At least let me go through the motions. Besides, there could be traps, deadfalls, pits full of spikes, or huge carnivorous plants here. Do carnivorous plants have auras?"
Zaqen shrugged. "Please yourself. Can Hrym melt the bridge for now? And just make it again in the morning? We've got this nice natural moat to protect us, after all ..."
"Of course," Hrym said. "If my wielder will just wave me in the proper direction ..."
Rodrick secured the horses, then took the sword through the dripping trees back to the bridge. He brandished Hrym at the river, and the magical ice melted, steaming away into nothingness and mist. Then they walked the perimeter of the island—which didn't take long, as it was a blobby circle perhaps fifty feet across at its widest, with rocky edges—and poked into a few copses of trees. Hrym could see as well in the dark as he could in the light, and he didn't notice any signs of dangerous prior habitation.
Rodrick stood for a while on the edge of the island, looking at the river's far shore, which was a greater distance away than the near shore, perhaps a hundred yards. Greenish lights bobbed there among the trees. "Will-o'-wisps," he said. "I've heard of those. Never seen them before. They like to lure people to their deaths and eat their terror, don't they?"
