Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
The countryside zipped by far below as the Wizard of Weathervale flew through the open sky. His cloak rippled behind him like banners on a parapet, like the sails on a merchant ship. Braiden Beadle hung on for dear life.
Braiden had hoped to experience more of the journey on foot, though he couldn’t deny the unparalleled convenience of traveling by air instead. He hadn’t even had the chance to complain about his sore feet before Augustin had scooped him up and taken to the skies.
“We’ll cut our travel time in half, I wager,” Augustin yelled over the wind rushing at their faces. “Perhaps even more.”
“As long as you don’t tire yourself out by the time we get there,” Braiden yelled back. But he knew the wizard wasn’t listening.
This wasn’t the boring way to Yhip Valley, and Augustin was going to savor every moment, whether or not he burned out his reserves of magical essence. Braiden couldn’t imagine how restrained and tethered Augustin must have felt.
Why should a wind wizard have to move over ground, consigned to the heinous act of actually transporting himself using his own two feet? There was a bit of pretentiousness already baked in, but Braiden knew better than to blame Augustin for only being who he truly was.
Does anyone expect an eagle to walk just because it can stand on two legs? What about its feathers? What of its hollow bones? Why should a dragon walk over land when he can unfurl his wings and fly?
“I’d check our map to see where we’re going,” Augustin shouted, “but I worry it’ll blow away in the wind.”
“I trust you,” Braiden said, at the very least half-meaning it.
He didn’t really have much choice in the matter, did he?
Dangling from the wizard’s arms, he felt very much like a kitten being carried by the scruff.
Braiden finally understood why the wizard bothered to build his muscles: It was for the purpose of effortlessly hefting hapless shopkeepers like sacks of potatoes.
At least this time they didn’t shock or terrorize any birds along the way. A flock of geese flying in the opposite direction barely gave them a moment’s notice. Perhaps word had spread among the avian community about the giant two-headed bird that patrolled the skies near Weathervale.
“Over there,” Augustin said. “That seems like a fine place to stop for the afternoon.”
Again, Braiden had very little choice in the matter, but he was happy to go along with Augustin’s plans.
He couldn’t complain, anyway. Augustin was already straining his body with the task of carrying an entire other human in his arms, not to mention the pressure he was placing on his spirit with the effort of maintaining a flying spell.
They landed gently on the peak of a grassy hilltop, not so high that Braiden would be afraid to take a terrible tumble, but high up enough to offer a very pretty view.
Braiden placed his hands on his hips as he sipped in lungfuls of brisk air, turning in a slow circle as he surveyed their surroundings.
“If Weathervale is all the way back there,” he said, pointing the way they came, “then that must be the road that leads all the way to Whiteport.”
He placed a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun, frowning down the long road to what was quietly considered as Weathervale’s rival. Hah. Whiteport. They thought they were so smart.
It was a port city like Weathervale, but far bigger, more strategically positioned as a center for trade, its waters teeming with merchant vessels.
They liked to lord their size and their wealth over Weathervale, and the pompous fools liked to claim that they invented the lobster roll, too. Preposterous.
And wasn’t Augustin responsible for stopping a tidal wave from slamming into their city, anyway?
Learning that little factoid had given Braiden a smug, if grim sense of satisfaction.
If it wasn’t for someone who was actually born in Weathervale, the city of Whiteport might have been wiped completely off the map.
“And over there,” Braiden said, pointing at a strangely darker stretch of land in the distance, its sky and even its grass seemingly grayer than everywhere else.
“A small village called Barrowdeep, somewhere thereabouts. I’ve heard that they’ve had to deal with the undead. Terrifying business, that.”
Augustin was already sitting in the grass, struggling to get his boots off. “Plenty to see and do in Aidun, though I admit, I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to interact with more of the undead, especially the bloodthirsty kind. Bones is plenty enough on his own.”
He finally yanked off his second boot, stretching his socked feet out in the grass, sighing in relief. Braiden smirked, wondering why Augustin was so happy to get his boots off when so little of their journey had involved actually walking.
Braiden pulled a flask of water out of his rucksack, far underestimating the very drying effect that flight had on the mouth and throat.
Perhaps it was something that could be remedied in future with some sort of helmet, or maybe a pair of tight-fitting glasses?
He’d seen alchemists use similar protective wear.
Hmm. What if he commissioned something from a glassmaker and leather crafter, then sewed some moongrass into the hide?
Would the moongrass magic take then? It was odd and exciting, receiving all these new ideas from this simple change of environment, how he was once again out of the craft shop in a place where his mind was allowed to expand and impossibly daydream.
But before he could voice the idea to Augustin, the sound of snoring hit his ears. Unbelievable. Augustin was already fast asleep, dozing off in the grass. Not that Braiden could blame him. The grass was very soft, quite nice to use as bedding. He’d have to be careful not to fall asleep himself.
Besides, Augustin deserved the break from spending so much magic on a flying spell. What if they arrived at their destination only to be immediately attacked by a raging elemental? He’d need to build his strength back up.
And Braiden deserved a little snack to go with his beverage, too. He retrieved one of several squarish cloth bundles from his rucksack, unwrapping the ends to reveal a small wooden lunchbox. He lifted the lid, mouth watering in anticipation.
Augustin’s snoring stopped, cut off by a sudden snort. He smacked his lips and opened his eyes blearily, then snuffled at the air, like a pig looking for truffles.
“Is that that horrible rock-hard cheese you’re so fond of? The kind that you can smell from another room?”
Braiden frowned. “I find it very tasty, for your information, and it travels well. It’s good to take along for journeys.”
And besides, it came as part of his rations — more like meal kits, really. Very clever, those adventuring suppliers at the Noose, putting together preselected assortments of foodstuffs that adventurers could simply pack and go, regardless of their destination.
This particular package — and Braiden’s personal favorite — offered a robust selection of nuts, salted meats, hard crackers, and yes, that one stinky rock-hard cheese he liked so much. Full of flavor, and fat, and protein, all things that Braiden’s body could use on this long journey.
“That smells horrible,” Augustin said. “Give me some.”
“Never,” Braiden barked. “You hate it so much, you’re not getting any.”
Augustin wrestled him, pinning him down long enough to take a bite of the cheese straight from his hand. Braiden couldn’t help laughing, by now accustomed to the wizard’s sporadic silliness.
It was nice, getting to know this side of him, especially knowing that the opposite side of the coin was a seasoned adventurer and folk hero who could level entire armies with his formidable magic. Probably. Maybe.
They snacked on rations for some quiet moments, savoring a meal as they stared at the sky.
“That one cloud looks like a bunny,” Augustin said. “See the two ears, and the muzzle? Reminds me of Warren. Oh no. Is that offensive?”
Braiden chuckled. “Maybe you can ask him yourself. They are rabbit people after all. I’m sure he doesn’t really mind.”
“It’s a good thing the weather’s so clear today,” Augustin said, suddenly sitting up. “Makes it easier to scout for threats. Here. Use this, and stand guard while I take a much needed nap.”
“Another one?” Braiden protested.
Augustin had already rolled over onto the grass by the time Braiden examined the warm metal tube he’d pushed into his hands. It was a spyglass, a finely crafted, fluted piece of brass with carefully fitted lenses on either end.
He held it up to his eyes, marveling at the clarity of the zoomed-in image on the other end. He pulled it away from his face again, feeling a series of grooves around the thinnest end of the device. Some kind of engraving?
For all the sights you’ll see, the graven words said. Love, Grandmother.
Braiden smiled. The spyglass was cared for, but clearly worn, a gift from years long past. Witnessing what he had in the dungeon, when Orora Arcosa had shown a glimmer of her affection for her grandson, Braiden had begun to associate other emotions with the elder apart from the usual apprehension and fear.
He lifted the spyglass again, scanning the countryside, a coldness trickling down his back when he glimpsed the gray lands near Barrowdeep, annoyance puckering his lips when he studied the road to Whiteport. What a marvelous invention.
Now this was an heirloom, something so simple yet so worth passing down from generation to generation. No offense to Granny Bethilda, of course, especially when none of them actually knew what the contraption was for.
But Braiden did remember the strings. Varying thicknesses, the sketch’s labels had said, from thinnest to thickest, as if for a musical instrument. Braiden still had his doubts, but Bones had the best guess at it.
Warren kept mentioning that the device looked familiar to him, but from where? The people of the Underborough limited themselves to simple tools and technology, no real need for inventions from above that only served to complicate life.
He hadn’t noticed any string instruments on his trips to visit the village underground. Drums, certainly, their barrel bodies formed out of the same basketry that the burrowfolk loved so much. Music it was, then, an instrument unfamiliar to people who had little need for lutes, guitars, or lyres.
“The moongrass might work,” Braiden muttered to himself as he continued to watch the landscape.
It made a thread of middling weight, perhaps good enough to serve as the center string of the instrument. The thinner string, he’d have to consider later.
As for the thicker string — would properly spun othergoat wool do the trick? And did any of these fibers have the right consistency for making music? Why wouldn’t the sketch specify if such strings were necessary for the strange object’s operation?
Braiden shrugged, bringing the spyglass down to his lap when his arms grew tired. He rifled through his things for the copy of the map instead, wondering how well he might fare at actually spotting their location. A necessary skill for any adventurer, surely?
He smiled at Elyssandra’s stick figures, chuckling again over the little drawing of a lightning-struck Augustin’s hair standing on end.
He perused the map, taking another swig from his flask, then paused so long, flask still held to his lips, that he hardly noticed until the water dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“Wait,” he muttered. “Did we overshoot our flight? Are we really that close to Yhip Valley already?”
A thunderous crack split the air, a bang from north of their hilltop. Braiden jumped, his stomach doing a somersault. Augustin sat bolt upright, wide awake.
“We’re under attack!” Augustin shouted.
“No,” Braiden said, hands shaking as he consulted the map. He peered through the spyglass. “That’s not it at all. That sound, it’s coming from farther away.”
But where, exactly? And why couldn’t he spot its source? Another explosion, followed by the sound of terrified bleating. Braiden sprang to his feet.
It couldn’t be. The othergoats were nearby — and they were in danger.