A shout from above jerked the officers’ heads to the lookout manning the fighting top, the wide circular basket midway up the stout mainmast used also as a shooting platform by deadly Elven archers. “Ship ho!” the Elf reported from his wildly rocking post to those interested below.
"Where away?” Hennario yelled back over the blustering sea breeze.
Pointing left, the spotter cupped his free hand to his mouth and bawled, “Astern on the port side, running northwards."
Glancing that way, the Shipmaster barked his concern. “Is she Goblin?"
The lookout hesitated before shouting down, “Can't tell, Gerent. She's tacking furiously.” The sighted ship kept sinking into wave troughs, to be obscured by the windblown spray from the spumed crests, thwarting identification.
"What rigging does she carry?"
"Lateen rigged ... three-masted by the look."
Aborlath spoke aloud Hennario's conundrum. “There are no triple-masters sailing Terrathian waters that I know of and no vessels in the fleets of Elves or Men hoisting triangular sails."
"Does she fly any colors?” Hennario put to his lookout.
"None that I can see, Shipmaster.” Considering Elves were eagle-eyed, it was likely true.
"Could she be an unknown type of Corsair?” hypothesized Aborlath.
"Doubtful. Goblin shipbuilding is as uninventive as a novice lute player. They duplicate every hull design of ours as soon as it slides down the slipway and splashes into Sanctum Cove. It won't be too long before we come across an inferior copy of the Stormrunner."
"What has the lookout spied then?"
Hennario could not hazard a guess. “Helm, come about to starboard,” he ordered.
"Aye, Shipmaster,” said the portside tillerman, signaling his partner to commence the turn. The paired rudders were a fairly recent innovation to increase a vessel's maneuverability, though Hennario did not take credit for that pearl of modernism. That claim to fame belonged to an apprentice shipwright out of Nhern. Hennario held high hopes for the promising young Elf, entertaining the thought of enticing him away from his hackneyed counterpart on whom his talents would invariably be wasted.
"We're gybing early for Nhern,” remarked Aborlath.
A shuddery jolt throbbed through the hull, jiggling the deck planking and sending a tremor up the sea legs of the Shipmaster as his vessel began to broach, veering broadside to the wind and slamming hard into a rolling wave. The helmsmen compensated and swung the broaching ship a degree to port even as Hennario latched on to the railing and barked, “Strike the boatsail! We'll run with the main until this wind dies down a bit.” Addressing Aborlath's comment, he explained, “Change of destination. We're making for Illebard."
"Home port, skipper?"
Hennario's sharp nod indicated his decision was not open for discussion. What with a Goblin sorcery ship making mischief off the Troll coast and now this sighting of a foreign vessel zigzagging her way north, the Elf Queen urgently needed informing. Peculiarities were cropping up on the high seas that demanded investigation. Unconfirmed rumors of a resumption of hostilities between East and West had filtered down to Gwilhaire, but Merainor stayed in the dark concerning the long distant sparring between the wizards.
"When are you going to make an honest maiden of my daughter?"
Aborlath had the wind taken out of his sails by the Shipmaster's unlooked for question.
"I'm not blind, Abor. I've noticed you pursuing Gabrionel."
Swallowing his embarrassment and a swab of injured male pride, the junior sea officer revealed, “She doesn't want to be caught, at least not by the likes of me."
Barely containing a shielding father's relief, Hennario clapped Aborlath heartily on the back. “Plenty of other fish in the sea, son."
"Except that Gabby's shopping for a tree."
The Shipmaster's hand squeezed Aborlath's shoulder painfully, conveying his unspoken demand for an explanation.
"She only has eyes for a certain Wood Elf,” Aborlath muttered with undisguised envy.
Hennario jerked his hand away from his subordinate and balled it into a fist, centering a spasm of rage into the gesture. “This Treesinger has a name?"
Aborlath honestly did not know.
Retiring below deck to his cabin to be alone with his angry thoughts, Hennario was on the verge of a meltdown. Racial division occurs in every “civilized” culture, including the superficially harmonious Elves. To quote an old Elf saying, Many trees make up a forest, meaning a nation is composed of different thinking peoples. Bonded by their love of wood, the Elves were in turn estranged by the ocean. While Lothberens avidly preserved timber in its natural state, even for domicile purposes, the Illebards were a more practical bunch, chopping trees down and constructing their seacraft and dwellings from the milled lumber. And that was the bone of contention driving a wedge between the Wood and Sea Elves, disseminated by an undertow of desired emancipation. Illebard quietly hankered for independence from the crown and its want for ethnic liberty was tearing at the fabric of Elven society.
But today, Hennario's wrath was misguided fatherly concern. Barely registering the creaking timbers of his wave-battered ship, he vowed from behind his stained mahogany desk that in no shape or form would water merge with wood in his family. Perhaps a stint in seclusion down at Nhern would curb Gabrionel's inappropriate fancy. He resolved to personally ship his daughter south once he reported to Merainor.
Reality cooled the Shipmaster's temper. In his position as steward of Illebard he had sworn fealty to the Elven sovereignty upon taking office, first to Jeiannah and then her successor, the present queen. Casual wishes of autonomy always took a backseat to the broader responsibility of serving the monarchy.
Prickled by an incongruity, Hennario reached into his sea chest and plucked out a scroll of canvas. Unrolling the chart on the pitching tabletop, he reviewed the cartographer's handiwork detailing the geography and surrounding seas of Lower Terrath. Brushing away the drips of seawater plopping from his rainwear onto the portion of the map showing the blank reaches of the uncharted seas beyond the Horn of Dunderoth, he puzzled over the sighting of that strange ship minutes ago. If the vessel was not Goblin or Anarican, had it sailed up from the unexplored far southern ocean?
A swashbuckler from way back, Hennario had allowed his congruent roles of gerent and commander of the Illebard Squadron to swamp his sense of adventure with the practicalities that those duties imposed. Always meaning to captain a voyage of exploration beyond local waters, he long speculated that an offshore island chain existed in the southern latitudes.
Further consideration of that subject went out the window when the hull was thumped by a crashing wave. Hennario jumped to his feet and lurched sideways as Stormrunner broached against the companion swell. Scrabbling up the ladder topside, the Shipmaster was yelling at the top of his voice even before his head popped up out of the hatchway. “Aborlath, put a hole in my ship and the only vessel you'll wind up captaining is a rowboat!"
"Shush!"
"Aw, shush yourself,’ Garrich snapped back at Maldoch. “I'm standing in something horribly slushy. It had better be mud. Are there in any cows in these parts?"
"Be silent, Goblin,” remonstrated J'tard. “There's movement out there."
"Boy, you possess the hearing of a bat. Use it."
Garrich did as the wizard instructed, his ears picking up faint squelching noises dampened by the fogbound conditions. A day into Misty Gap had seen the company lose track of time and their way. Refusing to admit incompetence after becoming turned around in the directionless miasma, Maldoch had gotten them all hopelessly lost. Stumbling about in the hazy light a day longer than anticipated, their sensibilities were offended by the overpowering reek of swamp gas hanging heavy in the abnormally still air. The off-course trio had wandered into the eastern arm of Shadfenn.
"Well, what's creeping up on us?” the spellcaster pressed Garrich.
"Giant toads, old man,” ribbed the G
oblin.
"Time for action,” decided Maldoch, snuffing out his lighted staff with a peeved word of command.
"You mean other than getting us lost."
Maldoch's run of bad luck continued. Attempting to magically dispel the blanket of white, his spell fizzled. Disturbing, gloomy shapes partnered the eerie sounds of motion, leaving him no time to ponder his ineffective wizardry as they began to close around the tiny group in an ungainly hopping fashion.
"Garrich, you haven't slain anyone in a while. Now will be a good time to get back into the habit."
"I thought you disapproved of me killing people."
"Only when it's not helpful."
The converging shadows multiplied as the seconds passed, tripling from a manageable handful to more than a dozen. Freeing his blade, Garrich adopted the classic Plow defensive posture: right foot forward, sword held in readiness point outwards at waist level. Maldoch and J'tard formed up back to back around the Goblin, presenting a united front of staff, club, and sword to stave off trouble.
Parting as if by magic, not Maldoch's, the fog dispersed, pulled back by invisible strands to form an arena of clear air some twenty yards in circumference, giving the easterners their first good look at the threat.
"By the Maker, what are those?” whispered the alarmed Troll.
"A sad aberration,” responded the wizard.
Garrich trained his eyes on his opponents as a soft rain issued from a pall of overcast. Goblin-sized creatures looking like nothing more than giant, limbed slugs encircled the questing party. Pale yellow eyes swayed independently on the ends of spindly stalks anchored over a gaping mouth, itself set above a chin from which stubby tentacles protruded. Humanlike arms sprouted from a torso dominated by two breathing pores at chest height feeding the primitive lung cavities nourishing air. Below the waist dropped a single, muscular leg ending in a broad sole that spread body weight evenly over the swampy ground and gave the beasts their peculiar bounding locomotion. Coloration ranged from pallid orange to brick red, the creatures glistening revoltingly from the gooey mucus lubricating their mottled skin. Garrich was drawn to their mitten-like hands grasping sickle-shaped swords fashioned out of what appeared to be varnished hardwood sanded to a fine slashing edge.
"My turn to ask, Mal. What are they?"
"Can't we play twenty questions later?"
"Tylar taught know your opponent, preferably before he stabs you."
"Picky, picky, picky"’ muttered Maldoch before providing the relevant info. “They call themselves Mdwumps and are native to Shadfenn only."
Their Troll compatriot made the observation as the Mdwumps edged nearer, “They don't look friendly, Magnificent One."
"I don't know them socially, J'tard. But I'd say you're right."
"What do they want with us?” Garrich wondered aloud, the point of his sword leveled at a Mdwump cautiously closing on him. A disquieting thought popped into his head and he quizzed the wizard. “What do Mdwumps eat?"
"Rotting plants."
Garrich sighed with relief.
"And decaying flesh,” added Maldoch. “You didn't let me finish.'
"We're main course,” construed J'tard.
"Not straightaway,’ the wizard said cheerily. ‘After hacking us to pieces, they'll let our meat putrefy before dining.'
'Lovely table manners,” commented Garrich. The ranks of Mdwumps were swelling from a steady flow of man-slugs lured from the depths of the hazy swamp by the prospect of an easy meal. Numbering in their scores now, the Goblin swordsman said, “How many of these Mdwumps live in Shadfenn?"
Maldoch laughed inappropriately. “A census has never been taken in these parts."
"Ballpark figure."
"Four thousand."
"Shouldn't you cast a spell to lay down snail bait before the other three thousand, nine hundred show?"
"Slight snag there,” said the mage. ‘My magic doesn't appear to work here. Shadfenn is imbued with mystical energies that are canceling out my spells. I can't enchant my way out of a canvas bag at the moment.'
"You're impotent!” bleated Garrich.
"I wouldn't put it that harshly."
The gathering of Mdwumps began displaying a collective boldness. Individuals at the forefront of the mob could be seen bobbing energetically on their single legs, communicating silently with their kin while waving timber blades in the direction of the bipeds. At any moment they would feel confident enough to rush the threesome.
"So how do you plan to extricate us from this, mastermind?” Garrich challenged Maldoch.
Twirling his staff, the neutralized spellcaster sneered. “Nothing beats a good old fashioned thwacking.” He lunged with unexpected speed for a man his age at one Mdwump who carelessly strayed ahead of the front ranks, knocking the wood sword from the creature's grip with the butt of the staff before reversing his prop and braining it with the stout crown. The luckless Mdwump buckled at the knee and toppled over out cold. Its brethren dithered, sampling the air with barbed tongues, confused by Maldoch's audacity.
The wizard imparted a few last minute tips to the Troll and Goblin. “Mdwumps aren't the rosiest apples on the tree. Their eyesight is poorer than a mole's. They can distinguish between light and dark, but have difficulty perceiving motion. They hunt by smell and taste. Don't get caught staying still and we should get out of this without having our innards sucked dry."
"Give me room!” J'tard bellowed deafeningly, startling Garrich with the intensity of his enthusiasm. The Troll's shout had barely died on his tusked lips when the Mdwumps charged. The bravery of the man-slugs faltered momentarily when the hulking Sandwalker swung his massive club in a wide arc, flattening the lead attackers and scattering the rank behind.
Garrich leapt into action once the Mdwumps recovered to renew their assault. Not having practiced his swordplay for a while did not diminish the Goblin's deadliness. He cut down two with ease, Dwarven steel slicing through slimy slug skin like a fish through water. “That is so disgusting,” he spat, thick goo and lime-tinged blood dripping from his worked blade.
Blocking a clumsy and mistimed sword thrust, Maldoch planted his staff behind his assailant and kicked out, tripping the near blind Mdwump who went crashing into its fellows. A few paces right of the wizard J'tard was pummeling a group of Shadfenn's residents into blobs of shapeless goo. And still the Mdwumps came on.
"Are they suicidal?” Garrich called out, sidestepping a fresh opponent and driving the point of his sword deep into its greasy back.
"Just mindless,” Maldoch quickly answered, busy taking out a fresh challenger. “It doesn't take brains to make your home in a swamp."
Faced with replacement sword fodder, Garrich dispatched a further three of the reckless man-slugs with disarming proficiency. Unfettered by guilt—these were brainless garden wreckers, not men—the Goblin took to his grisly task with gusto, hacking right, left, and center. Mdwump body parts littered the squishy swamp ground, oozy slime and blood mixing with the waterlogged mud to make the footing even stickier.
Ankle deep in the disgusting quagmire, J'tard battled surmounting odds. For every Mdwump he clubbed into oblivion, five took its place. The Shadfennite onslaught was planned to overwhelm the prey by sheer weight of numbers, no matter the cost ... ingeniously straightforward, notoriously difficult to combat without heavyweight retaliatory firepower of crossbows or catapults.
That downside did not escape Maldoch. Before too long the woefully small company of three would tire and be swamped by the incoming tide of man-slugs. Walloping another Mdwump across the chest, caving in a lung pore and sending the reeling creature gasping for breath, the wizard's own arms deadened with fatigue. Something had to be done and quick! The boundary of the rainy fighting arena, where the thinning mist continued to dissolve, showed snippets of foliaged green between the strands of diffusing fog off on Garrich's right, giving Maldoch a flash of inspiration.
"Fight our way to the jungle!” he exhorted the Goblin and Tro
ll. “Once out of Shadfenn, I'll be able to use my magic again."
"We don't need warm rocks,” mocked Garrich, decapitating another adversary with a whistling upstroke.
"Good thinking, boy,” complimented the spellcaster. “Animals fear fire and the Mdwumps are one step above snails."
As if sensing the ploy the man-slugs redoubled their murderous efforts, converging on the threesome en masse.
"Go for it!” hollered J'tard, holding back the majority with devastating swings of his club that made mincemeat of his foes. Shoulder to shoulder, Garrich and Maldoch battled their way through the persistent Mdwumps, almost reaching the beckoning strip of jungle peeping through the mist and drizzle before the mob grew too thick to win past.
"Ouch!” yelped the Goblin, finding out firsthand that wooden swords were not playthings when he copped a nasty scratch on the ear. He retaliated by dismembering the plucky Mdwump fighter before tackling the blockade, lashing out in pain and anger at the primitives. Backing Garrich up, Maldoch spun his staff like a windmill in a hurricane, whacking a path to the tropical forest.
"Safety!” exclaimed the wizard, dealing to one last Mdwump barring his way to the steamy jungle. The struck beast made a grab for the mage's robes as it fell, smearing the frayed hem with icky slime. The enchanter booted the clawing mitten-hand away and bitched, “That's just swell! I'll have to get my cloak cleaned now."
With payback his prime thought, Maldoch jumped briskly from the marsh into the low growing plants layering the curb to the impenetrable wall of flora soaring 300 feet from ground level to the crowns of the taller trees. Guarding the oldster's back, Garrich deflected a hasty swipe at Maldoch's shoulder blades then leaped after him through the misty ribbons, landing six feet from the incanting spellcaster. There was a worrying rustle of parting plants dead ahead of the panting Goblin, and he gawped at the nightmare detaching itself confrontationally from the jungle perimeter.
Wizard's Goal Page 43