Only he had been able to escape, he would tell them, and only because he had a spell that allowed him to float above the earth. The spell did not allow him to carry the weight of another.
Bera would receive posthumous honors.
Isaam would miss her more than a little; he had served with her a long while. She was a brave commander, though doomed.
Isaam floated east, flying higher to avoid the flames and the smoke that continued to shoot toward the cloudless sky.
MUDWORT’S REFUSAL
Mudwort heard Graytoes’s call, amazed that the yellow-skinned goblin could accomplish such stone-telling on her own. Perhaps she’d underestimated Graytoes. Or perhaps Graytoes had found a great well of magic inside in a moment of desperation.
Mudwort was well aware that a portion of the great Qualinesti Forest was burning but not all of the forest. The red-skinned goblin had ranged far to the north and was off by the coast. She was safe from the flames and the smoke. She couldn’t see or smell them, and she was glad she couldn’t.
She knew the forest burned only because when she touched the end of the spear to the earth, she could peer through the ground effortlessly. It no longer required a spell. Her magic was growing. She’d chanced to look in on Direfang moments past. Her vision of their first meeting in the Dark Knight mines had made her curious about his well-being.
That’s when she’d noticed the flames and taken in the scope of the firestorm. Doom was enveloping the goblins and their hobgoblin leader.
Mudwort would miss Direfang above all the others she’d left behind, and perhaps she would miss Graytoes too. But she was too far away to save them, and it was none of her business anymore.
She hoped they died quickly and without much pain and that the winds scattered their ashes and bones so nothing touched. She did not want their spirits returning to be trapped forever.
“Direfang is remembered,” Mudwort mused. “Direfang was a good, good friend.”
Within minutes she felt sand beneath her feet. She’d reached the beach. She liked the feel of it and let her toes sink in. Every sensation felt more intense to her. Mudwort knew it was because of the magical spear; it had heightened everything-her ability to stonetell, her spells, her hearing and sight and all her senses. It would take quite some time to discover all the magic inside of the god-tossed-away weapon.
Mudwort heard voices again, the rustling leaves to the east talking to her, crying out to her. “The forest aches,” they said. “The forest bleeds and dies. The forest hurts.”
“Only a part of the forest,” Mudwort returned contemptuously. “And only for a while.” She remembered looking at the young pines on the opposite side of the old, muddy river. “The forest will be born again. Maybe better. The forest will not be dead for long.”
The leaves persisted, as did another voice.
“Saarh,” she murmured, recognizing the voice finally.
“Yes. Mudwort, do something.”
Mudwort shook her head so hard, her necklaces became tangled. She wore all she had, even the pretty one with all the sapphire stones she’d feared another goblin would take from her. She didn’t fear anything or anyone anymore.
“Mudwort, do something,” the voice repeated.
“Do nothing, Saarh. Shut up, Saarh.” Mudwort discovered shortly after leaving the clearing that Saarh, or the spirit of Saarh, was lodged inside the spear. That was why Mudwort hadn’t been able to see Saarh when she’d peered into the future; she saw only the spear. And that was because Saarh was inside the spear. There were other spirits in there, too, older ones, but none of them as interesting as Saarh. Mudwort didn’t listen to any of the others. She’d already explained to Saarh that there was nothing wrong in abandoning Direfang and his following. “Direfang will be born again, like the forest will be born again.”
Mudwort continued north, walking closer to the water so the voices of the leaves would be harder to hear, the surf drowning them out.
“Can’t do anything anyway,” Mudwort said after several more minutes had passed and Saarh had lapsed into brief silence. “Too far away. Too tired. Not enough magic inside. Too, too far away.”
“There is enough magic in the spear,” Saarh argued.
Mudwort wondered how and why Saarh had put herself inside the weapon-perhaps her means of achieving immortality. Mudwort also planned to live forever but not inside the spear.
“Mudwort’s treasure, this spear.” She liked the sound of that phrase. “Mudwort’s spear.”
“Chislev’s spear,” Saarh corrected.
Mudwort shook her head again, all the necklaces rattling.
“Chislev didn’t want it. Chislev forgot it. Chislev left it behind in the forest, and Saarh found it. Saarh-”
“-left it for Mudwort to find,” the old shaman returned.
“Chislev left it for Mudwort to find.”
“Chislev threw it away.”
“Chislev hid it,” Saarh corrected again. “Chislev brought Mudwort here to find it.”
“No.”
“And to use it to save the forest.”
“No.”
“And all the creatures in it.”
“Shut up, Saarh!” Mudwort slammed the end of the spear into the sand, but her mind instantly was flooded with images of burning trees and smoldering corpses of goblins and deer.
“Too far away, Saarh. Too far away to help. Mudwort refuses. Happy here.” Mudwort slammed the spear harder into the sand, thinking that might rattle Saarh and make her be quiet.
Mudwort was instantly surrounded by flames. “Mudwort refuses-”
“-to let the forest die,” Saarh finished.
Mudwort didn’t know if the spear had brought her into the heart of the burning woods or if she had done it of her own accord. Suddenly smoke crawled into her lungs and her feet blistered from the flames. She didn’t spy any living goblins, but there were husks here and there that once might have been goblins or men, blackened, curled things that smoldered and smoked and added to the unbearable, hot stench of the place.
She coughed and waved her free hand in front of her face.
“Mudwort refuses to let the forest die. Saarh knows Mudwort’s heart. Mudwort will not let Direfang die. Mudwort will not let-”
“Shut up, Saarh! Shut up! Shut! Up!”
Then Mudwort saw the fire as though she were a bird flying overhead. It was a massive blaze, all orange and red and gold with roiling clouds of black puffing away like the earth was a great furnace being stoked explosively. The image reminded her of the ore being smelted in Steel Town. “Hell Town,” the knights used to call it. The forest was worse: “Hell Forest.”
The fire was worse than the earthquakes and volcanoes, and though she wanted to ignore it or deny it, Mudwort knew that it was within her power-the spear’s power-to do something about it.
All chance, it was, she thought, that she would stumble across the spear in one of her earth visions and decide to pursue it. Chislev had nothing to do with it. Saarh played no part. It was all chance and Mudwort’s curiosity. There was no destiny or god involved. Her damnable curiosity.
But she was flying over the heart of the forest fire, so she might as well use the spear’s power and do something.
Mudwort imagined that the sky high above the forest was filled with rain clouds. There was nature magic in the spear and in her, and she could use both to get rid of the smoke and fire. She was choking on the smoke. She’d save herself, she thought.
“Just to save Mudwort.”
She felt instantly weak, as if she’d been punched in the stomach by a Dark Knight. She heard the fire roar all around her, and she heard rumbles and blasts of thunder. She felt the ground tremble and knew that it came from a bolt of lightning that had shot down from the clouds she had summoned.
“Save Mudwort.” She invested more energy into the storm she was creating and was rewarded when a raindrop struck her upturned face. “More,” she coaxed. “More and more.”