The Maelstrom

~ 6 ~ To the Ravenswood Spur

When he opened his eyes, Max found that he was still clutching Toby and sitting next to David as he had at Rowan. But they were no longer in their room; they were sitting on a moldy cot in a run-down villa. A dreary dawn peeked through holes in the sagging roof. Birds were roosting in the rafters, cooing softly and rustling their feathers whenever any icy draft came sweeping through. David released Max’s hand.

“How do you feel?”

Max did not reply. He was on the verge of vomiting. Every organ seemed out of place and confused, as though they were still traveling thousands of miles in an instant. Even the room’s dim light caused stabs of pain in Max’s head. Shutting his eyes, he lay back on the bed and waited for the nausea to pass. The smee stirred in his hand.

“Wh-where are we?” Toby stammered.

“Blys,” replied David. “In Prusias’s own province. The capital city is a hundred miles or so south. We’re not so far from Max’s old house. We’ll pass it on our way to Broadbrim Mountain.”

“Why are we going there?” asked Max, releasing Toby and sitting up.

“Let’s have a seat,” said David, gesturing toward a splintered table in the room’s center. “We’ll examine Sir Alistair’s dossier and discuss the plan. I already have some things in mind.”

“May I finally slip into something more comfortable?” asked Toby. “It’s emasculating to be plucked up like a stray sock and carried about all the time.”

“Of course,” said David. “We’re not at Rowan—you’re free to take whatever shape you like.”

Smees were doppelgängers extraordinaire, creatures capable of mimicking not only another being’s shape, but also its mannerisms, speech, and aura. When Max had first met Toby, the smee was masquerading as a ten-ton selkie to win the affections (and servitude) of the Sanctuary’s selkie sisters, Helga and Frigga. When his fraud was discovered, Toby had been forced to reveal his true shape before all assembled and was thereafter banned from changing shape while at Rowan. When put to a more noble purpose, however, the smee’s talents were exceedingly useful. Not even the terrible demon Mad’raast had been able to penetrate Toby’s disguise when they’d sailed Ormenheid through the Straits that previous spring.

But it was not a fat merchant who bounded onto the table; it was a squirrel monkey with tawny fur and black, intelligent eyes.

“I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to have arms and legs!” Toby crowed, swinging his limbs about and peeking back at his prehensile tail. “How luxuriant.”

Ignoring the smee’s ensuing acrobatics, David set his pack upon the table and pulled out Ms. Richter’s portfolio. When Max asked about light, David directed him to a cobwebbed corner where several lanterns had been stashed along with candles and a small container of oil.

“Why not glowspheres?” Max wondered, setting the lanterns on the table.

“No magic,” muttered David, unfolding a map and laying out several sheets of oily-looking paper. “It leaves a trace. No magic unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Using flint and tinder, Max lit the lanterns and came around so he could look at Sir Alistair’s notes. David had already read the first parchment and handed it to Max. “Careful handling that,” the sorcerer warned. “Florentine spypaper’s very old and extremely fragile. Remember—any marks you make on its surface will be transmitted to its twin.”

Holding the sheet delicately by its edges, Max leaned forward to examine it by the lantern’s warm yellow light. The paper was covered in tiny writing and diagrams that had faded or sunk into the paper so that they initially appeared to be little more than abstract patterns and blemishes. But peering closely, Max could make out faint sentences of coded Italian, French, and Russian, along with a cross-section of a castle tower and a patent drawing for some sort of loom. Atop these faded secrets was Sir Alistair’s writing, penned in pristine script. The message was encrypted, however, and utterly nonsensical until David handed Max an oval of rose-colored glass. Once Max peered through the lens, the message became clear.

Evil is brewing—or building—in the Workshop. I’ve seen its members at royal gatherings, and while never a particularly sociable set, they appear exceedingly nervous and afraid to say or do the wrong thing. My sources say that Prusias has taken a more active interest in their endeavors and has commissioned something secret, some sort of war machine to help him conquer the other kingdoms. The demon’s malakhim have been sent to observe the Workshop’s progress, and I hear that the children of some key engineers have been “apprenticed” to loyal braymas throughout Blys as a means of keeping their parents industrious.The Workshop itself is a fortress, and I fear that direct communication—much less infiltration—has become impossible. We must pass along information and gather intelligence using less direct means. Our opportunity may reside with an influential smuggler—a woman who lives in a settlement called Piter’s Folly. She is called Madam Petra, but you may remember her as Petra Kosa—the Olympic medalist who later became a cause célèbre in the art world. She’s an interesting, exceedingly capable woman who has been very savvy at positioning herself with various factions to become a major player within the region. No one can build or buy anything near Piter’s Folly without her approval. Even the goblins pay her tribute when they drive their caravans past on the Ravenswood Spur. She’d be a valuable ally and may be able to contact the Workshop on our behalf or provide intelligence on their initiatives.We must tread carefully, however. She has spurned our previous efforts to develop a relationship for fear that Prusias will learn of it and crush both her and her enterprise. The immediate and highly public nature of these rejections suggests that she suspects informers among her staff. She will not meet directly with strangers, and her assistants screen all of her appointments and visitors. In order to speak candidly with Madam Petra, I believe we must masquerade as someone with whom she is familiar and already does business. We must smuggle ourselves in to see the smuggler. While she trades with other human settlements and some demons, she also does a brisk business with the wealthier goblin clans, including the Blackhorns, Highboots, and Broadbrims.…“Ah,” said Max, glancing at David. “That’s why you want to go to Broadbrim Mountain. You think Skeedle can help us get in to see the smuggler.”

His roommate nodded and handed over the second sheet. Putting the first aside, Max took up the decrypting lens once again.

Piter’s Folly is located in the duchy of Bryllbatha near the borders with Raikos and Holbrymn. It is named after its founder, who was ridiculed for building so remote a shelter when the troubles began. Piter is deceased (officially, he drowned; unofficially, Madam Petra had him killed), but what started as his own private haven has grown into one of the largest human settlements in Blys. There’s no official census, of course, but my contacts estimate that several thousand people live there, protected by the island’s vast moat of surrounding lake and an expensive arrangement with the duchy’s braymas. The Ravenswood Spur is the closest road. It cuts through the old Carpathians and passes close to the settlement on its way to feed into the Iron Highway that runs east toward Aamon’s kingdom. It’s a notoriously dangerous stretch of country, and the Agents must be wary of criminals—particularly as war looms and food grows scarce.In addition to bandits, there are also Prusias’s spies to consider. Prusias trusts few of his vassals and fears treachery at every turn. The kingdom is riddled with informants, and it is unlikely that the conspicuous use of magic or force will go unnoticed. A low profile is best.While Aamon’s armies threaten from the east, perhaps the greatest danger and most unpredictable element is Yuga. You may have heard that the demoness has devoured most of her duchy and has been encroaching upon other territories. Piter’s Folly is not far from Yuga’s own borders or from Raikos, where she is reputed to be feeding. The more skittish settlers are preparing to flee the island and move west.This is a dangerous assignment, but an essential one. We must open up a communications channel to the Workshop and learn whatever we can about Prusias’s war machine. Perhaps Aamon and Rashaverak will eliminate Prusias for us, but they are just as likely to turn upon Rowan themselves. We must prepare for war in any event.Sol Invictus, Alistair Wesley

When Max finished, he stood and gazed over David’s shoulder at the map he was studying. Piter’s Folly was far away—almost a thousand miles across what had once been called the Alps and Carpathians. And winter was nearly here.

“It will take us weeks to get there,” Max estimated. “And that’s assuming the roads and bridges are open. Couldn’t we have tunneled closer?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied David. “It’s not an easy task to create a link between our room and a distant destination. I only have several such outposts in Blys. This outpost is closest to Broadbrim Mountain, but I have another that’s nearer to Piter’s Folly. If we’re lucky, we can use it to return to Rowan.”

“What do you mean, ‘if we’re lucky’?” asked Toby anxiously.

“Assuming it still exists.” David shrugged. “The locations are out of the way, but we’re entering a war zone. There’s nothing to say that an army hasn’t destroyed it or refugees haven’t taken up residence. The outpost is in Raikos—close to the border between Blys and Dùn.”

“And Yuga,” Max reflected grimly. “Can we use this outpost to jump to the other?”

“They don’t work that way,” answered David. “Each linkage requires a lot of time and energy, and I didn’t have enough of either to establish connections between the outposts. Each tunnel is like a spoke that connects back to the observatory, but they don’t connect to each other.”

“Well,” said Toby, “I suppose you’ll have to conjure up a horse and carriage like you did when we stormed old Prusias’s castle, eh?”

“Sorry,” replied David. “No magic. Until we reach Broadbrim Mountain and can hitch up with a goblin cart, we’re either walking or …”

The squirrel monkey’s face drooped.

“I’m to be a steed, aren’t I?”

“It would be faster,” Max reflected. “A nice big horse with room for two. It’s just sixty miles or so, Toby, and the switchbacks to the Broadbrim guardstones aren’t too steep. I know this country.”

“Well, goody for you,” replied Toby acidly. “I suppose when we’re in territory that I know, I’ll be welcome to sit on your back and cry ‘giddy up!’ and ‘whoa, there!’ for a day or two. It’s humiliating. I’m a spy, not a steed!”

“Can you be both?” asked David plaintively.

They headed north. Toby had become a shaggy black horse, and as the disgruntled smee cantered up the road, Max found his sense of adventure returning. The air was cold but bracing, bending the tall grass and the wild thistle as winter settled over the land. The sun was rising, trying to peek from behind a jigsaw canopy of crowding storm clouds. Occasionally its golden rays streamed through to warm the gray landscape and give it a dreamlike quality. The road was empty; the only sounds were those of the wind and the steady clip of hoofs upon the ancient Roman stones.

By early afternoon, the land became hillier, the grass growing in thick tussocks as the road wound through stands of spruce, ash, and poplar. Even the smells became familiar to Max as they neared his old farmhouse. Ahead he saw its stone chimney peeking from behind a hilltop.

“Let’s have a look,” Max said, glancing back at his roommate, whose cramped expression had not changed since morning.

“It might be inhabited,” chattered David, his face blue with cold.

“I’m sure Toby could do with a rest. There might be food. And I know there’s clean water nearby.…”

“If you insist.”

Toby was more than ready for a rest. As they slowed to a trot, the smee was snorting and sucking at the air, trying to catch his breath while steam rose off his flanks. Dismounting, Max and David stretched their aching limbs and led the grumbling smee around a wooded hill where they could approach the house from a less exposed position.

“I’ve really got to get into training,” grumbled Toby. “Too much roulette.”

“Shhh …,” said Max, creeping forward to peer through a gap in the fragrant pines.

There was the farmhouse, but sadly not as Max remembered it. Its red door had been kicked in and the shutters torn away while the wind rippled over puddles in the animal paddock. The windows were dark, and it appeared that much of the roof had burned away in a fire. A feral cat was lounging in the doorway, yawning and cleaning its fur.

“It looks uninhabited,” whispered Max, motioning the others to follow.

The three emerged from the woody fringe of the farmhouse’s clearing, stepping through the small orchard where Toby turned up his nose at the fallen remains of rotted fruit. The paddock was empty, except for the scattered bones of two sheep. Max glanced at the dark stones of a nearby well, remembering the pulpy, giggling monster that had lived in its depths. Toby was ambling toward it on weary legs.

“Don’t water there,” said Max quickly. “There’s a lake nearby. I’ll just look inside and then we can go.”

He soon regretted his decision. The cat darted inside as he approached to poke his head inside the door to see the ruins of his former home. The farmhouse had been ransacked, everything of value broken or carried away by scavenging humans or goblins or whatever else had happened by.

“Not quite as you remember it,” said David sadly, coming up beside him. The boy peered his head inside at the wet, warped floorboards and the frosted mold. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Max without much conviction. “I was stupid to hope it would be the same. I’m surprised it’s still standing.”

“At least we got them out,” said David, referring to Isabella and the children. “We’d never have done so without Mr. Bonn. He was a funny one.”

“A kind and thoughtful imp,” Max mused, recalling Prusias’s secretary. “Who’d have thought they exist? I hope he’s okay.… He was a good friend. I first heard about Yuga from him. ‘Patient Yuga,’ he called her.”

“I’ve heard that tale,” said David. “The imps revere her. These days she might require a different nickname. Yuga’s not so patient anymore.… Holbrymn is a wasteland.”

“Have you ever seen her?” Max wondered.

“Just a glimpse once or twice through the observatory when scrying was still possible. Never in person, thank God. You think Mad’raast was big? Yuga’s the size of a hurricane—a living, breathing, ravening storm that stretches to the horizon.”

Max shook his head at the image’s mortifying scale. Toby ambled up, chewing on a mouthful of grass from an old haystack by the paddock.

“What do you say, Toby?” said Max. “Can you do another thirty miles?”

“In thirty miles, do I get to cease my role as Shaggy the Bucktoothed Wonder?”

“For the night at least,” Max assured him. “If you can go thirty, we’ll reach Broadbrim Mountain and my friend will have you lounging in a wagon and eating chocolates all the way to Piter’s Folly.”

“Promise chocolate and you’d better deliver,” sniffed the smee. “This road is hell on my hoofs. I almost miss being limbless.” With a shudder, the horse spit out the hay and tossed his head. “Very well—a gulp, a trot, and then some rest. Let’s get this over with.”

After drinking his fill from the lake, Toby was once again cantering down the roadside. As dusk settled over the landscape, the mountains loomed ahead, their snowcapped peaks obscured by dark clouds gathering at the summits. More than once, Toby slipped on the wet road whose stones were growing icy as daylight waned and the temperature fell.

“How much farther is it?” he gasped, slowing to a hobbling walk. Leaning forward, Max saw that the smee’s lips were flecked with frothy spittle, his breath coming in desperate, sputtering puffs.

“I think you’ve done enough for one day,” said Max, swinging his leg over and helping David down. He gazed up at the sky and heard the low rumble of thunder from the mountains. The temperature was still dropping, and Max worried that they might be in store for freezing rain. Squinting ahead, he tried to estimate how far it would be to Nix and Valya’s. He doubted the vyes still lived there, but he hoped their villa would be in better repair than the farmhouse. “I think it’s another six or seven miles to a house I know. We can gut it out or we can make camp now.”

“A roof trumps a tent,” declared Toby, walking slowly in a circle.

David nodded but was rubbing his behind and looking peevish. The sorcerer was not accustomed to riding for hours at a stretch, but rather strolling along at his own pace. David was perhaps the most traveled person at Rowan, but journeys via magic tunnel were undoubtedly less taxing to his behind than hours spent riding bareback atop a cantering horse.

“I’m happy to walk for a bit,” he grumbled, loosening the straps on his pack.

“Cloak-and-dagger’s fun, isn’t it?” Max needled, looping an arm around David’s narrow shoulders. His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Look! I think there’s our double agent at the cafe up ahead. Not the waitress—the man smoking a cigarette. Don’t stare! I’ll stake it out; you get ready to drop the briefcase.…”

“That’s hilarious, Max. Truly.”

Grinning, Max turned to address Toby when something caught his eye.

There were riders on the road behind them. At such a distance, they seemed little more than bobbing black specks, but there were many. They were still a good ways off, but they appeared to be riding swiftly.

Max spoke sharply. “Off the road! Toby, take a smaller shape. Quick, quick, quick!”

Seconds later, Max, David, and a gray hare hurried off the road, crossing a narrow strip of dead grass and slipping into the woods. The light was already fading, and Max silently wished David would be more careful as the boy blundered through bracken and branches, cracking leaves and twigs underfoot. When they were a hundred yards in, Max brought the group to a halt.

“You two rest up here,” he whispered. “I’m going back to have a look.”

“Don’t let them see you!” hissed Toby.

“Thanks for the tip.”

David gripped his arm. “Remember your shine,” he cautioned. “If they’re spirits …”

Max nodded. He’d already thought of that and was bundled up not only to ward off the cold but also to minimize the chance that any spirit would glimpse his aura. In his cloak, he carried a mask of dark fabric whose only opening was a narrow band across the eyes. Slipping it on, Max pulled his hood down low and stole through the twilit wood back toward the road.

He selected a mountain ash some twenty yards from the roadside. Taking hold, Max climbed high enough to count the riders but stayed low enough to remain hidden by the branches of a neighboring spruce. As the rain began, Max watched and waited.

The showers were sporadic, but whenever the clouds parted, the moonlight revealed a potentially lethal minefield of watery slicks and icy stone. Max could now hear the horsemen coming.

They had not camped at nightfall as he’d hoped but continued at full gallop even as shadows fell over the land. Whatever their purpose, it was urgent. Edging forward, he peered out into the darkness to see if the riders had lit any torches.

When he saw none, Max knew they were not human. No man or woman would ride so hard in such conditions without so much as a torch to light their way. The riders were getting closer now, the ground thundering at their approach.

They passed like a wild hunt from a child’s nightmare. The figures were armored, chain glinting under the moon as they hunched over swift, champing steeds whose decaying bodies revealed their sliding bones and trailing strings of sinew. There were dogs, too, rotting, ravenous war hounds that bounded alongside the horses, braying into the night. Scores of deathknights galloped by, a spectral company girded for war and racing east toward the front. Several bore Prusias’s standard—a border of wheat sheaves encircling three gold coins. For an instant, Max glimpsed it fluttering in the moonlight and then it was gone—fading into the gloom as the company hurtled past and was swallowed by the mists at the mountain’s foot.

Returning to David and Toby, he found them huddled behind the trunk of a fallen tree, looking cold, wet, and miserable.

“Wh-who was it?” chattered the smee, half burrowed in David’s cloak.

“Soldiers of Prusias,” replied Max. “They’re not searching for us—they’re riding too fast. I’d guess they’re outriders or cavalry heading off to the war with Aamon.”

“What should we do?” asked David.

“I think we should press on,” said Max. “If the horsemen are outriders, there may be an army or some larger force coming up behind us. We don’t want to get caught up in that. We’ll stick to the woods and hike up into the mountains until the terrain gets too steep. Then we’ll have to return to the road—it’s the only way through the higher passes.”

“So we’re to have no roof?” moaned Toby. “No fire or a proper supper?”

Max shook his head. “Sorry. Not tonight at any rate. I have some jerky if you want.”

“Jerky,” sniffed the smee disdainfully. “I might as well chew your boot.”

David coughed into his cloak, a convulsive wheeze that shook his entire body.

“Let’s get going, then,” he wheezed. “The ground is freezing.”

For hours they felt their way through the woods, walking from one moonlit patch to another. Toby had become a lynx to better see in the dark and guide them through the close-pressed firs and spruce that blanketed the foothills. It was hard going, but Max was grateful for the forest’s cover. More than once, a wind came howling through the treetops as fell spirits flew past in the night, their ghostly cries fading as they tore through the mountain passes on some unknown errand.

By dawn, the three had climbed high enough for the trees to thin. The freezing rain had departed, but a cold mist lay about the hills. The air was rich with the smell of pine and resin, the branches sagging with ice. Max stopped to check on David’s progress.

Rowan’s little sorcerer was leaning heavily on a walking stick as his feet stumbled along, some twenty yards back. Throughout the night, David had not uttered a peep of complaint, but anyone could see he was flagging. Max set down his pack.

“Sun’s coming up,” he observed, pointing at the range’s golden rim. “I’d say we have another five miles, most of it road, before we reach the guardstones. We’ll need energy for the final push, and I’d say it’s foggy enough to risk a small fire. Get comfortable and I’ll make breakfast. Are your socks wet?”

Coughing into his fist, David nodded wearily and eased down to rest his back against a tree.

“Put on fresh ones,” said Max. “We’ll dry the others and your boots by the fire.”

Without magic, a fire would take some doing. The nearby wood was soaked through and Max had to scour for some drier sticks beneath the branches of a dense fir. Using pinches of lint as tinder, however, he soon had the wood hissing and then crackling with flame. Sitting down, Max rummaged through David’s pack, finding a string of sausages and half a loaf of Marta’s bread wrapped in crinkling brown paper. He soon had the sausages cooking in a small skillet. Toby practically hovered over the pan, licking his lips and sniffing at the sizzling pork until a drop of fat spattered on his whiskered chin. Yowling, he jumped back and settled by David, who was rubbing his stocking feet.

The three wolfed down their breakfast, sopping up the skillet’s grease with the remaining bread. Color had returned to David’s face and even Toby appeared companionable. Standing, Max gazed down at the mist-veiled road and up at the shrouded peaks.

“I think we should head downhill. The terrain only gets steeper ahead. Once we’re back on the road, we need to move quickly. Do you think you can do that?”

David nodded, but glanced anxiously at the ugly blister on his instep.

“Let’s bandage your feet,” Max suggested, digging for a roll of clean linen. “As soon as your socks get wet or start to rub, let me know and we’ll stop and change to others. It’s no good toughing it out and allowing it to get worse—you’ll only slow us down later. Toby, do you think you could manage a mule for a short while?”

“If I must,” sighed the smee.

Minutes later, the three made their way down the precarious slope. While Toby’s mule was sure-footed, David was an inexperienced rider and Max had to walk alongside and steady his friend as they navigated their way down the hill. It took the better part of an hour. When they finally reached the bottom, the sky had blushed to a pinkish blue and a sprinkling of fresh snow covered the ground.

Max kept them to the road’s farthest edge so that they could shelter beneath rock ledges and leaning trees as they wound their way up the lonely passes. When they’d climbed to some new crest or vantage, he stopped and scanned the valley below with his spyglass. Snow was swirling about, weightless little flakes that danced before the lens. Squinting, Max saw no one on the road. Indeed, he saw no living thing but for a pair of circling hawks high above the vale and an elk trotting across a stream. The landscape was so quiet and peaceful; the riders of the previous night seemed naught but a bad dream.

“The clouds are at play in the azure space,And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,And here they stretch to the frolic chase,And there they roll on the easy gale.”Max turned at the sound of Toby’s voice. The smee was staring down into the valley, looking meditative. “Life has its moments,” he reflected quietly. “This footsore misery would be worth it, if only for this moment, this view. It feeds the soul, boys. That it does.”

“I didn’t know you were a romantic, Toby,” said David, smiling and patting his withers.

“Then you know nothing about smees,” the mule retorted, flicking his ears. With a parting glance at the valley, he turned and pressed on.

For the next hour, the three pushed steadily up the mountain, following the pass as it switched back or tunneled through a narrow cleft to rise again on the other side. As they climbed, the snowfall intensified, swirling about them as mist blew past like tattered shrouds. When the road finally began to widen, Max knew they were near the goblin caverns.

“Toby,” he said. “Up ahead are the Broadbrim guardstones. Do you think you can become a bird or something small and scout ahead for us? I need to know if there’s a good spot where we can settle down unseen and keep an eye on the entrance.”

“What do the guardstones look like?” inquired the smee.

“You can’t miss them,” said Max. “They’re huge slabs of red granite.”

“Very well,” said Toby as David climbed off. The mule disappeared and Max stared down at a plump gray jackdaw, hopping about the snow and letting the wind flutter through his feathers. A moment later he was gone, flying off on his black-tipped wings.

“I hope Skeedle can help,” Max muttered, well aware that the goblin might be en route to or from some distant trade destination. And goblins tended to be greedy, grasping creatures quick to exploit those weaker than themselves. What if Skeedle had lost his cheerful bloom and adopted the harsh habits of his elders?

“If he can’t, we’ll try something else,” said David with a sanguine air. “We’ve traveled to the Sidh, Max. I have every confidence we can make our way to Piter’s Folly and bluff our way in to see a smuggler.”

Max grinned; David’s spirits were reviving.

A moment later, Toby fluttered back and landed with an inexpert, skidding series of hops.

“We’re in luck,” he reported. “There’s a small ledge across from the guardstones, some twenty or thirty feet above the road. Not an easy climb, but it should be manageable.”

David glanced dubiously at his stump of a right hand.

“Worst case, I can carry you,” Max offered.

“Did you see any guards?” David asked Toby.

“No,” replied the smee. “Just the stones, sealed tight as a troll hitch.”

“At one point I knew the password,” Max reflected. “I made Skeedle and the others tell me, but that was a long time ago. I’ll bet they’ve changed it.”

“I’ll bet they haven’t,” said David. “Let’s get settled. I want to try something.”

Hurrying up the road, they finally got their first glimpse of the guardstones—two gargantuan blocks of granite that were joined so tightly that the door appeared to be little more than an incongruous slab of reddish stone. Max glanced up at the ledge Toby had reported; it would be a very difficult climb for David.

But perseverance won the day. With Max giving him the occasional boost, David managed to scramble over the boulders and piled rubble, clinging to roots and rocks with fierce determination. In fifteen minutes, he reached the ledge, wheezing and coughing into his cloak. Shielding himself behind a boulder, he took a deep breath and caught a snowflake on his tongue.

“Not bad,” said Max, crouching to peer at the guardstones. “You’ll be scaling the Witchpeaks next.”

“So what’s the plan, gentlemen?” inquired the jackdaw, hopping from one foot to the other in an attempt to warm his tiny body. Giving up, he suddenly ballooned, his feathers smoothing to fur as he became a brown marmot.

“Well,” said David, “we could sit here and watch for Skeedle. But that might take days and there’s no guarantee we’ll see him. But if Max knows the password, we might try sending him a message.”

“How are we going to do that without stirring up the whole clan?” asked Max.

“A little trick,” said David. “One that involves some magic, but just a very little. There doesn’t appear to be anyone on our trail. I think we can risk it.… Speak into my hand and tell Skeedle that you want him to come outside. Assure him that he’s not being haunted or going insane.”

The sorcerer opened his hand and Max saw a swirling sphere of golden vapor materialize between his fingers. At David’s urging, Max leaned forward and spoke into it as though it were a microphone.

“Skeedle, it’s Max McDaniels. If you can hear me, I need you to come meet me outside the guardstones right away. Come alone and don’t let anyone know what you’re doing. Trust me; this is not a ghost and you’re not going crazy. So put down your spicy faun tripe and come see your old friend.…”

“Perfect,” said David, closing his hand about the sphere. “Now we just need you to try the password.”

Leaning forward, Max cupped his hands and said, “Bitka-lübka-boo.” He braced himself for the expected tremor.

Nothing happened.

“Maybe a little louder,” David suggested. “You’re practically whispering.”

Max tried again, but the stones remained as they were.

Toby scoffed. “You sound like a ninny. What are you afraid of?”

“Well, I don’t want to shout it,” Max snapped. “There could be sentries nearby.”

“When bold hearts fail, send a smee,” Toby declared, brushing past Max and waddling down the steep ledge. Arriving at the bottom, he looked both ways before stealing across the road to the red slabs. Rising up on his hind legs, the marmot gingerly touched the doors.

Again, nothing happened.

Max could not hear the smee, but if his pacing was any indication, the creature was losing patience. Dropping to all fours, the marmot arched his back and bellowed.

“Bitka-lübka-boo!”

When the mountain shook, Toby panicked and came racing back, bounding up the rocky slopes to land beside them in a panting, trembling ball.

“Good work,” David whispered. “Stay low.”

Spreading his fingers, the boy sent the vaporous sphere snaking toward the guardstones, which were sliding apart to reveal a dark chasm beyond. It zoomed into the entrance, skimming past the head of a potbellied goblin that came clanking out in his iron-soled shoes to peer at the road. Lifting his broad-brimmed hat, the creature stood and scratched at his lumpish forehead before clutching his pelt closer and shuffling back inside. The mountain groaned as the stones slid shut.

“Now what?” Max asked.

“We wait,” replied David, spreading a woolly tartan over his legs. “If Skeedle’s inside, the zephyss will seek him out, slip inside his ear, and deliver our message.”

“Maybe we should have sent two,” said Max, imagining the twitchy goblin’s reaction. “He’ll definitely think he’s going crazy.”

“Have faith.”

Within the hour, they felt the mountain shake once again. Peering over the ledge’s lip, Max watched as a caravan of five wagons emerged into daylight. A pair of goblins sat in the driver’s seat of each, one holding a tall spear and the other a whip. Yelling out to the mules, the drivers cracked their whips and urged the teams to turn the wagons west and head down the road from which Max and the others had come. As the stones were closing, Max saw a small figure slip outside. It paused, shielding its face from the flurries as it gazed about. Max stood and waved.

The goblin waved excitedly back, hurrying across the road and climbing skillfully up the fallen rocks until he joined them on the ledge. When Max knelt and hugged him, the hideous little creature nearly danced a jig.

“I never thought I’d see you again!” Skeedle exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice low. The young goblin had grown since Max had seen him, having added another sharp tooth and perhaps twenty pounds to his short, plump frame. “What are you doing here?”

“We need your help,” Max replied. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Settling down next to his hero, the goblin listened attentively as Max and David relayed where they were going and what was needed.

“So … two wagons and someone who’s traded with the Great Piter Lady,” confirmed Skeedle, twiddling his stubby claws as though brainstorming various options. “I’ve never been so far, but my cousin’s been three times and once with Plümpka himself. He never shuts up about it.”

“We also need trade goods,” added David delicately. “Something the Piter Lady’s always eager to buy.”

“Kolbyt would know, but he’s still passed out,” said Skeedle. “He got back last night from a caravan and swore there are ghosts on the road. Went straight to the casks and drank till he dropped.”

“Do you think you can wake him up?” asked Max. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Skeedle, but we need you two to take us to Piter’s Folly. Realistically, I’m guessing it will be six weeks for you to get us there and come back.”

The goblin frowned. “Longer if the passes get snowed in,” he mused. “Ravenswood Spur goes through rough country. Normally we’d need bribe money and a whole guard troop, but with you …”

Skeedle sat talking quietly to himself in his native tongue while flakes collected on his belly. “I think … I think we can do it,” he said, brushing off the snow and standing up.

“Don’t tell Kolbyt any more than you have to,” David cautioned. “But you have to convince him to accompany us. We need him.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Kolbyt,” said Skeedle breezily. “Give me till dusk and I’ll be back with him and everything else.”

“Skeedle,” said Max, “I really appreciate this.”

The goblin blushed. “You fought that troll for me,” he said, raising his arms so Max could lift him over a particularly large boulder. “I was in a tough place and you helped me. No one’s ever done anything for me.” Set back upon his feet, however, the goblin glanced sideways at Max. “But just remember that as far as Kolbyt and the rest are concerned, it was Skeedle who took care of that troll. All by himself. Capisce?”

“Perfectly.”

The pair shook hands before Skeedle clambered down the icy scree like a little goat, clutching his beloved hat as a gust threatened to whisk it away.

As promised, Skeedle returned just as the sun was setting, casting purple shadows that stretched across the snowswept road. Four sturdy mules pulled his wagon, a baroque-looking tank that appeared equal parts carriage and strongbox. Another team of mules followed behind, pulling a smaller wagon whose driver was nestled down between a pair of barrels. Waving to Max, Skeedle pointed east to indicate that they should meet him farther down the road.

Hurrying down from the ledge, Max led the others along the shadowed gully to where Skeedle was waiting at a turnout that offered a spectacular view of distant valleys where the faint lights of distant settlements could be seen. One by one, the stars were coming out, little jewels scattered across a sky of deepening indigo. The goblin could barely contain his excitement.

“Off to Piter’s Folly with Max and his friends!” he exclaimed, double-checking the harness before hastening over to doff his hat and stow their things. When the goblin unlocked the stout wagon’s doors, Max glimpsed a warmly lit, surprisingly spacious compartment, lined with crates, blankets, and pillows. He longed for a proper bite and a long nap.

“Should you introduce us to Kolbyt?” wondered Max, eyeing the squat silhouette that was waiting for them.

“Do you know how to drive a wagon?” inquired Skeedle, studiously avoiding eye contact.

“I guess I can manage, but—”

“Good,” chirped the goblin, quickly tossing their packs into the back. “Just introduce yourself when he wakes up.…”

Horrified, Max walked over to the other wagon. An enormously fat goblin with a pronounced underbite was fast asleep in the driver’s seat, his broad chest heaving like a bellows. Belching, the creature muttered something unintelligible and rolled over to scratch his patched and lumpy breeches.

“That is foul,” Max groaned, wafting the odor away. “Skeedle, you said you’d wake Kolbyt up—I don’t want to kidnap him!”

The goblin gave a cheerful shrug and removed the barrels that he’d used to keep his cousin propped in place. “You said you were in a hurry,” he reasoned, tottering under their weight as he stowed them. “He might not stir till tomorrow or the day after. Kolbyt’s a mighty deep sleeper and the cask was almost empty. Just follow me and don’t drive over the edge!”

And with that, Skeedle ushered David and Toby into the back of the larger wagon where the pair stretched luxuriantly amid the fleeces and blankets. The smee was already nosing at a fat tin of chocolates when Skeedle closed the doors and the snug, jewel-like interior vanished from view like a happy dream. Unspeakably bitter, Max swung up into the driver’s seat and unceremoniously shoved Kolbyt over, tossing a wolf pelt over the bloated goblin to dampen his smell and snoring. Shaking the reins, Max felt the wagon lurch into motion as the mules clopped dutifully after Skeedle’s wagon, which was already descending the steep decline.

Throughout the night, Max drove the wagon down the far side of the mountain in what was one of the more terrifying experiences of his eventful life. Every ledge appeared narrower than the wagon’s base; every crevasse seemed a bottomless abyss as the wagon lurched along, bouncing over fallen rocks and shattered icicles thicker than his arm. Whenever gales came screaming through the passes, Max shut his eyes while the heavy wagon seemed to roll and pitch like a storm-tossed glider. He counted eleven near-death moments throughout the night, but Kolbyt never stirred, much less awoke to offer any expert guidance. By dawn, Max had abandoned all pretenses at driving the team. Sitting bolt upright, he merely clutched the reins with frozen hands and croaked halfhearted pleas to the oblivious mules.

At last the terrain leveled out and Max descended yet another pass to find Skeedle’s wagon stopped at the cusp of some shallow foothills that fed down into another frostbitten valley. Max heard whistling and spied the goblin’s absurd hat peeking from behind the bush where he was relieving himself.

As Skeedle stood on tiptoe, his face emerged. “Perfect night for driving, eh?”

The goblin’s grin evaporated when he noted Max’s expression. Saying nothing, Max lumbered stiffly to the other side of the bush. The doors to Skeedle’s wagon burst open and Toby came hopping out, still wearing the marmot’s guise.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” he called pleasantly. “But next time we play by my rules, you knave! You saucy rapscallion!” Shaking his head, the marmot chuckled until he caught Max staring at him. “Your roommate is quite the poker player,” he explained.

“That’s perfect,” Max muttered, staring off into the hazy distance. “While I’m teetering over chasms, you two are playing cards all night.”

“Not all night,” said the smee. “We did other things, too.”

“Like what?”

“We ate chocolates,” sniffed the unrepentant smee, waddling over to wash his face in a nearby stream. “And we talked. David needed my advice.”

“On what?”

“Girls.” Toby shivered as the icy water touched his nose. “How to woo the fairer sex. How to ply a blushing maid with wit and sweet nothings until she fairly melts with desire.”

“And so he asked … you?”

“And I suppose he should have asked you?” laughed the smee. “Ha!”

“What’s wrong with asking me?” said Max. “I’ve had a girlfriend—”

“Julie Teller?” chortled Toby. “Are you honestly citing Julie Teller as the basis for your expertise on love? Isn’t she the very girl you were dating when you sailed away from Rowan without even saying a proper goodbye? The same young lady who was left to wonder whether you were alive or dead for over a year? I’d imagine she must be the same Julie who is now dating one Thomas Polk, a steady young man who bores her to tears and yet she still finds him infinitely preferable to you.…”

Turning fire red, Max opened his mouth for a furious retort. But nothing brilliant occurred to him and he shut it again. Everything the smee said was technically true. Leaning heavily on a wagon wheel, he knocked a clump of mud from his boot.

“It was complicated,” he muttered. “There were lots of other factors.”

“There always are,” Toby observed wryly, jumping back onto the wagon’s rear platform while Skeedle fed and watered the mules. His voice softened. “But don’t feel too bad. Why would you know anything about courtship?”

“Well, why wouldn’t I?” retorted Max, glaring at David whose face appeared inside the wagon.

“Because you’re young, handsome, and inexperienced,” remarked the smee. “Most girls take one look at you and swoon. You’ve never had to really work for someone’s affection or put effort into maintaining it. In many ways, your natural gifts have done you a disservice—they’ve stunted your sensitivity and charm! You’ve never had to develop insight into what will make a girl laugh and come to love you for reasons that aren’t handsome or heroic. That’s why smees are experts on the subtle arts of courtship and seduction; nothing comes easy to us, but we do understand and live by the Lover’s Maxim.”

“And what on earth is the Lover’s Maxim?” asked Max, feeling very uninformed.

The smee cleared his throat. “If you can’t be handsome, be rich. If you can’t be rich, be strong. If you can’t be strong, be witty.”

“But what if you can’t be witty?” Max wondered.

“Learn the guitar.”

David snorted with laughter, but Max did not. He considered these words and the unexpectedly sage marmot sitting beside him, casually grooming his coat.

“I suppose you’ve had a slew of relationships,” Max ventured.

“Indeed,” purred Toby with dreamy nostalgia. “Some lasted years; others were no more than a delightful afternoon. But all were torrid, mind you. The blood of a smee runs hot!”

“Okaaay,” said Max weakly, regretting this last inquiry. He returned to his own wagon before the creature delved into details; the very idea of a lothario smee was quite enough after such a harrowing night. Skeedle had finished tending after the mules and was squinting up at the pale blue sky.

“Fair weather,” he remarked. “Or fair enough. How’d the wagon handle?”

“Super,” Max deadpanned, squeezing back in next to Kolbyt who was now draped across the seat and snoring to wake the dead. “How much longer do you think he’ll sleep?”

“Hopefully till we’re on the Ravenswood Spur,” said Skeedle. “By then, he’ll have to give in and go all the way to Piter’s Folly. If he starts belly growling and gnawing on his lip, it means he’s getting hungry. If that happens, just stuff some of this faun tripe into his mouth so he doesn’t wake up.”

“It just gets better,” sighed Max, frowning at the dented tins Skeedle dropped onto the seat.

They drove on for the better part of two days, crossing a broad expanse of foothills and valleys. Whenever Skeedle grew too tired, they pulled the wagons over and secured the mules while David or Toby kept watch from inside via an ingenious device the Broadbrims installed in their best wagons. From the outside, what appeared to be nothing more than a small skylight was actually a sort of periscope whose system of mirrors granted those within an excellent view of their surroundings. With its surveillance, armored plating, and a plethora of hidden murder holes, the wagons were like miniature fortresses rolling their way over hills and hollows.

Thus far, however, they’d had little need of defenses. But for the occasional sight of a distant castle or lonely farmstead, the land was largely uninhabited. The endless road and Kolbyt’s continued slumber provided Max with plenty of time to think. Whenever his seatmate stirred, Max merely opened one of the tins and held his nose while dangling the bulbous strip of pungent tripe above the goblin’s sharp, serrated maw. Like a shark preparing to take bait, the goblin’s jaws distended. With a sudden snap, the creature would snatch the flesh away and mince it about from cheek to cheek. Within seconds of gulping it down, the snoring resumed.

As the mules swallowed up the miles, Max found time to reflect upon Toby’s jibes. Perhaps he had treated Julie poorly. He’d always thought of themselves as victims of circumstance, star-crossed lovers. After all, Mr. Sikes had meddled with their relationship, and his Red Branch duties often required Max to travel far away on long and dangerous missions. He had given up trying to live the life of a typical Rowan student, but perhaps he bore more responsibility for the relationship’s failure. Perhaps he could have been more considerate of Julie’s feelings. Max suspected this was true. But he also had to be honest with himself. When death was near in Prusias’s Arena, his heart had made things abundantly clear. The person he’d longed for, the face that flashed before his dimming eyes had not been Julie’s.…

The wagon gave a sudden jolt and nearly tipped forward as one of the mules stumbled into a ditch. Max pitched off the seat and clung to the rail as empty tins rattled about his head or clattered overboard to go bouncing down the road. Braying irritably, the mule regained its footing and the wagon righted itself. Cursing, Max climbed back into his seat and looked about for the reins.

He found them clutched in the hands of a confused and very angry goblin.