A tale told in texts, over the span of a busier than expected day.

First, a little background: the mice had really moved in, this year. It wasn't as much a problem previously, but when the squeaking and gnawing became nearly constant, and the traps had failed, and the bold little buggers woke me up by crawling over my blankets at night...that was when all right-thinking members of the community came together and decided to let slip the Cats of War.

The cat in question, an elderly retired breeding stud justly fatigued with an excitingly active early life, was predictably the lone dissenting voice, and registered his "Nay" with a drawn-out snore. Yet, citizens agreed, Something Must Be Done.

Further background, of possible pertinence: I have a broadsword acquired many years ago on a trip to Germany, which, unlike the cat, was more notable for its lack of previous activities. I decided to show the reluctant hunter what was required, using the tool I had to hand.

It begins:

Me: Two more Enemies of the People are dead, and my broadsword has notched another two kills.

A: yay on the mice.

Me: 3. Another broadsword kill. Meanwhile that useless cat is snoring on the bed.

Me: 4, 5. I shall name you...well, not Sting because you're about as sharp as a butter knife that's really let itself go. But "Beater" has a nice ring to it.

A: so, you are *literally* using that stage sword to kill them, yes?

A: …no, i can't come up with a mouse-related pun for "glamdring" or "orcrist"…

Me: Yes, literally.

A: well, maybe they'll start fashioning tiny suits of armor from our recyclable metal.

Me: 6,7. One by cat, one by trap. Nice to see the cat finally taking an interest. Plus he ate them so A. I didn't have to pick them up and throw them outside and B. He didn't wake me up at 5:30 am to feed him and I could sleep in. Win.

A: aww, he wants to bond with you. you're killing mice, so he wants to kill mice too…

A: this is starting to look like a counting book, honestly.

Me: I have to keep counting, otherwise that dumpy bastard Gimli will think he's won.

A: you've got gimli there helping??

Me: The mice may not be expecting a sword, but they are really not expecting you to toss a dwarf at them.

Me: 8,9. One broadsword, one bludgeon. But the cat was watching with keen interest.

Me: 10, broadsword. The cat was actually flushing him out for me this time.

A: a bit sad that you have to teach our elderly cat how to mouse…

A: at least he's taking notes.

A: i think i'll find you a little rubber stamp of a mouse, so you can stamp your desk or something.

Me: 11, trap.

Me: 12, but now I need Elrond to fix the Sword That is Broken.

Me: 13, trap.

Me: 14. Not bad for two days work and it's certainly quieter down here.

Me: 16. Want to sleep now.

Me: 18. And the curious thing is that the last three were caught inside the cat's litter box.

A: ...you know there's wheat in the litter, right? That's why it's called Swheat Scoop?

Me: ...we're letting the cat poop on food??

Cat: snooooooooooore

Epilogue:

At last, it was over. The booming guns fell silent, the shouted orders faded away, the field of battle was populated only by battalions of crows. A solitary bagpipe played the sun down.

And I got a good night's sleep. Until I was woken up by a final text at 3 am:

A: ...they have moved up to my room.

[X]

(Uptown and Under Town, part 2.)

She awoke, with a splitting headache and a foul taste in her mouth. She tried to spit, and found she was gagged. She opened her eyes, but all she could see was blackness. She could feel something across her face, rough and scratchy - a bag. Anger rose swiftly, and she tried to raise her arms and rip off the bag, but her hands were tied, as were her feet. She narrowed her eyes in fury, but this caused her head to throb, and she nearly groaned aloud, catching herself just in time. She forced calmness upon herself. Captured, obviously. If couldn’t immediately free herself, best if her captors did not yet know she was awake. She used her other senses to build up a dim picture of her surroundings. She was lying down on something lumpy. Her ears caught the sound of wooden creaking, and a gravelly crunching, and coupled with a sense of movement, that said “wagon.” Listening more intently, she could hear clop-clopping of a horse moving slowly and the slight footfalls of one- two? No, not two, that was an echo, so therefore she was in an enclosed space, a building or, hmm, it was cold and damp - a cave? Or just a building down by the river? If it was a building, it was a long one and - she was lying at an angle that increased and decreased at random intervals - moving downwards. Probably not a building, then, as people tended to like their floors flat. Plus - she sniffed - an oily smell, but not hot metal, that was a torch, not a lantern. A cave or tunnel, then. Probably under the bluff, rather than the distant hills they had seen on the far side of the farmlands. She had no evidence for this guess, but it would do for now.

So. Captured. Good. Capture meant whoever had done it had some use for them more than slitting their throats and stealing their money. If the baker had wanted to do that, he could have done it back in the bakery and tipped their bodies over the edge of the bluff. Yes, the baker must have been in on it. How else would they have been drugged? Special muffins, indeed. She’d find that miserable rat and feed him his own muffins and more besides, once she was out of this. She wriggled a little bit experimentally. The knots around her hands and feet were tight, but the throbbing in her head was subsiding, and if she couldn’t cause a little mayhem with her elbows and fees still free, she would be very much mistaken. Her sword was gone, though - when she lifted her head ever so slightly, she couldn’t feel its weight pulling down her braid-sheath.

She caught a snatch of conversation - the man leading the wagon - and he was leading, not riding, so that lent credence to the tunnel hypothesis: He’d have to lead the horse, and it was probably too low to sit upright in the wagon. She strained but could only make out mutterings. “..left…ten…” Directions? He was repeating directions to himself. That meant not just tunnel, but a tunnel system, and the possibility of getting lost on the way out. She made a mental note to keep someone alive after her breakout.

She flexed her elbows, and met unyielding wood on her right, and something with some give on the left. She pressed and heard breath escape - ah, another captive. Probably Jonnar. Hopefully Jonnar. Whoever it was sounded like they were still drugged, however, for there were no complaints about her probing elbow. She realized with glee that her captor was counting on the drug to keep the prisoners sedated until after they were delivered, but the baker had almost certainly miscalculated her dosage. It will take more than that, little fat man, she thought grimly to herself. Still, if they wanted her asleep for a certain amount of time, it behooved her to make use of the fact that she had stolen a march on them.

She began to slowly inchworm away from the horse sounds, toward the back of the wagon. She drew up her knees ever so slightly, then pushed with her feet until she moved backward slightly. There was no comment from the man walking ahead, and she imagined he was concentrating on leading the horse, confident the prisoners were still asleep. She repeated the action again and again. This was by way of another experiment - if her head met wood, well, that was the tailgate of the wagon and she would try something else. But, if as she suspected, this was not a prison-wagon but a standard craftsman’s dray, it was likely open at the back to faciliate loading and unloading. Her guess was confirmed as she kept inching backwards and met no resistance. Eventually, she felt her head sag downward, and knew she had reached the end of the wagon. She redoubled her efforts - her back was sagging down now, and the gravity and the last push with her feet sufficed.

She tumbled off the wagon, expelling her breath as she dropped so that the impact would not drive it out of her with an audible sound. She thumped onto the rocks, but not loudly enough to be heard over the hoofbeats. She lay there while the sound diminished slowly - and then sharply. He must have turned into another passage! Frantically now, not caring if she were heard or not, she scraped the knots around her hands across the rocks. It was tricky to do by feel and in a hurry, and by the time she felt the rops slacken slightly, she could already feel blood flowing from innumerable scratches and scrapes. She put forth a tremendous effort – and the ropes parted with a snap. Quickly, she dragged the bag off her face, not even caring about the gag: she just needed to see where the wagon had gone. She she was rewarded. Down the tunnel a ways, she could still dimly see the wall dimly illuminated by the light from the torch, decreasing as it moved slowly away.

With her hands free, she made quick work of the knots around her feet and rose, padding swiftly down the down, tearing the gag out with relief as she moved. The tunnel floor wasn’t smooth, but very uneven and she slipped several times, once banging her knee painfully. But she was swiftly up and moving again, this time muttering northish curses under her breath. She reached the side passage, and there was the torch, a dim but distinct light ahead. She padded quickly after. As she did, she checked for her hidden weapons and found that whoever had captured her had been disconcertingly thorough. That was disappointing, but all it meant was that she would have to collect some as she went along.

All at once, a cackling laugh broke the stillness. Starting at the edge of madness, it rose and reached a crescendo somewhere on the other side of sanity before dying away into a burbling guttural sigh. At the same time, a flare of red light caused the rocks around her to cast stark bloody shadows. She froze, hands clenched around the rocks, then moved grimly forward. Ahead of her, the sound of wagon wheels had stopped. She must have been closer than she thought, for almost immediately she heard what must have been the wagon-driver, voice full of irritation.

“Finished?”

“We have merely begun, brother,” intoned a hollow voice. “For the glory of -”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the wagon-driver. “Glory, is it? Glory to be stumbling around down here in the stinking darkness and then having you lot jump out at me with caterwauling and fireworks, that’s glory, sure.”

“It is meant to instill fear in the hearts of outsiders, brother,” the voice returned. Gryx crept closer, and at a bend in the tunnel, peeked around. A short distance ahead, the wagon had stopped in front of a - was that a dragon? Surely the wagon-driver - not to mention the horse - wouldn’t be standing so calmly in front of it. Flanking the fearsome head were two torches in sconces on the tunnel wall, and as Gryx watched, they flickered and danced. The shadows fell onto the dragon head and it seemed to move closer and back.

“I ain’t your brother,” the wagon-driver snapped. “And I am outside, and wanting to get in.”

The voice became cold. “Those who are not respectful may find a poor welcome within. Brother.”

This abashed the wagon-driver. “Aye, well…I…meant no disrespect. The dark gets on me nerves, and then all that hullabaloo…are ye going to let me in, or not?”

“Enter,” the voice intoned, appeased. “Enter the realm of the Shadow God.”

Then Gryx saw in astonishment as the “dragon head” rolled itself upward out of the way. It was just a painted curtain! With the surrounding shadows and the flickering flames, a decent imitation of life could be achieved, especially to viewers who were already frightened out of their wits by unexpected light and noise.

As the wagon moved through, the curtain rolled back down, and the torches folded themselves back into the wall. The tunnel turned black - no light escaped from the other side of the curtain. Gryx wondered if the guards could see in the dark, or whether there was another means of alerting them to the presence of someone approaching. As quickly and as quietly as she could, she moved forward, crouching, sliding her hands and knees along the ground. About half-way toward the curtain, she felt the slightest resistance along her wrist. Feeling carefully, she grinned in the dark. A thin tripwire ran from one side of the tunnel to the other. Carefully, she stepped over it, but in case there were others, continued her quiet but urgent shuffle until she reached the curtain. She lay on her back, and quietly rolled it up. It was heavier than she would have guessed, and her hands told her that metal slats had been woven through the back, with not even a finger’s breadth between them. No-one, if they missed the tripwire, would just blunder through the curtain!

Once it was rolled sufficiently high, she rotated her body through, sliding it in a semi-circle on the floor. Halfway through, she froze as something lightly touched her leg. It wasn’t repeated, even after she waited, so she carefully moved - and there it was again! Again she froze, thinking of rats, or worse. Holding the rolled up curtain with one hand, she cautiously felt ahead with her other and found - branches and leaves? No doubt about it. A thick mat of intertwined branches, with round leaves the size of the palm of her hand.

Now she knew it wasn’t an animal, she quickly slid the rest of the way through and let the curtain down. She stood up, gingerly at first, but though the floor creaked and gave slightly, it felt solid. She tried thrusting her fingers between the branches, but as far as she could reach, they just touched other branches. It was like standing on a woven basket. And according to her best guess, the branches merged smoothly into the walls.

The walls were also strange. She felt bark and small boles where branches had been lopped off. Between one tree and another was a gap, and she boldly put her hand into it, only to encounter more bark after a few inches. So, trees that pressed close enough in succeeding rows to each other to form a nearly solid wall. They seemed to get thicker and closer together the higher she reached, and then realization hit her. It was a forest - an unusually thick forest - but upside-down!

She wondered whether the trees intertwined their roots above her head, and raised her arms. She could just feel something soft and moist, yielding in a rubbery fashion to her touch. She sniffed, and detected a slight musty scent from the hangings - like a mushroom after rain. Mushrooms, growing between the roots? She wished she could see, not because she was frightened, but because this was all stranger than anything she’d ever encountered and she wished to explore it with her sight as well.

Whatever this part of the tunnel was made of or lined with, it effectively deadened every sound. She could no longer hear the wagon wheels, or the grumbling driver, or the horse. She stood uncertainly for a moment, one hand resting lightly on the curtain to keep herself oriented, and looked around blindly, like a worm in the light. Then her head snapped around as two feline eyes glinted from the left. They blinked and disappeared.

She stared, took a step toward them and nearly bumped her nose on the wall. Turning her head - there they were again, on the right! Not full eyes, nor glowing but the flecks you sometimes see in cats’ eyes as if they were catching and reflecting light from a source she could not see. And then, startlingly loud, a purr. Gryx blinked in astonishment, then squatted and flicker her fingers together in a come-hither gesture. The eyes did, and after a moment, she felt something delicately sniffing her hand, then rubbing it. She petted blindly, but there it was - head, back, tail. It arched its back into her hand, purring loudly. Then it moved off, still purring.

On a hunch, she followed it. The cat moved over to the tunnel wall by the curtain. It turned and flashed its eyes at her again, still purring. Gryx moved over to it, reached down to pet it, and grazed her head. Quickly she pulled her head back, and then cautiously reached out, expecting to feel an untrimmed tree branch, but instead, her hands found a shelf, and on the shelf a lantern, and by the lantern a box of matches. These must be how the guards lit their way to and from their post, she reasoned. She shook the lantern experimentally, and heard it slosh. So, an oil lantern then.

She pulled a match out of the box - and it ignited! At least, she heard a sound as if it did, but if there was a flame on top of the match, somehow it gave no light. Indeed, if she looked carefully, there seemed to be a dancing bit of extra darkness on the end of the match. She held it near the palm of her other hand, and felt not heat, but a sharp coldness. She gritted her teeth to avoid making a sound, and applied the match to the lantern. Again, she heard something catch, but saw no flame bloom. Then the coldness reached her fingers, and she hissed and dropped the match. She was about to put the lantern back on the shelf, when an extra-loud purr from the cat caused her to look down again. She almost hissed again in surprise. The cat’s eyes were glowing fiercely green-gold, and that was startling enough, but the tunnel “floor” is what arrested her attention. In a circle around the cat, each leaf was softly flowing a ghostly, phosphorescent green. She moved to touch the leaves, and the circle shifted - and then she realized. Rising up, she moved the lantern about. She couldn’t see what was shining out of it, but wherever the whatever landed, the leaves glowed. Amazing!

She turned back to pet the cat in thanks, but it was gone. A loud purring drew her attention to the wall - and somehow, from deep within the walls, two feline eyes gleamed briefly at her. Then they vanished.

She put the matches in her pocket, in case she needed them later, and raised the lantern high before her. Surrounded by what looked like nothing so much as greenish will o’ the wisps, she set out down the tunnel to wherever it led her.

[X]

(Uptown and Under Town, part 1. Yes, I've skipped a chapter here, because I got stuck. I'll post it when I've gone back and written it.)

The Fogdancer nosed its way into the dock. Ropes were thrown from the decks and made fast to bollards, orders were given to furl sails, and the ship was docked. As it did so, the harbormaster began ringing his bell, to which there were answers in the town above. Gryx could see some stevedores spill out of various buildings and coalesce into a group that headed toward the docks at a fast slouch.

Gryx and Jonnar surveyed the town from the deck. It sloped sharply upward from the docks, clinging to the side of a long bluff that confined the river for this stretch. The houses and shops closer to the dock had a colorless, mildewed air, as if the perpetual fog had leached the color from the wood and stones. Gryx could identify a tavern, its windows giving out a sullen reddish light. Here and there, people and animals moved through the streets, heads down, talking little. As the streets and houses mounted the hillside, however, color began to return, and the houses lining the top of the bluff blazed forth bravely in the morning sun.

“Look, Gryx!” said Jonnar, pointing. “Look at the houses up there! Let’s go. It would be so nice to see sunlight again after being in this dreary fog for so long. Say we will, do please!”

Gryx assented quite willingly, for she, too had her fill of fog. Just then, Sebat came up beside them. “Not yet, my friends, not yet,” he boomed. “You have paid your passage, ’tis true, but on a barge at dock, everybody works. Once the cargo exchange is finished, then you can explore the town.” He laughed at their crestfallen faces. “Oh-ho, now, it won’t be as bad as all that. Fine, strapping folk as you two are, it’ll be done in no time. And I daresay some of the hands’ll be happy to stand you a drink or two for your pains. Now, off with ye!”

They trooped after the hands, and carried sacks and barrels up from the hold, down the wide gangplank to the dock, where the town hands exchanged their loads with others from carts and wagons disgorged from the nearby warehouses. Truthfully, Gryx didn’t mind the work. She felt the stiffness quickly leave her side and leg as they worked, and she amazed the crew with the prodigious amount she could carry in one load. Jonnar, too, fell in willingly after the initial disappointment, and was laughing and joking with the hands almost at once. The town hands didn’t laugh, however, but merely grunted acknolwedgment when a question or jibe was thrown their way, looking with envious eyes at the Fogdancer. Dancer indeed, for it touched at their town for the briefest of measures before it would waltz away again, leaving them behind in the gloom.

The town wasn’t that large, so they unloaded but little and took on far more, so that the Fogdancer sat much lower when they finished than when they’d begun. Sebat assmbled the crew on the deck. “Well done, lads - and lady passenger, thanks to you and your friend that was quick work. Now, you have leave - ” he was interrupted by a cheer, “Until sundown -” he was interrupted again, this time with a groan. “Aye, aye, but it’s captain’s orders. We undock then, and sorry you’ll be if you’re late, for we’ll not turn back for ye. Sundown, mind, and try to leave some of the town standing after ye, for we’ll be passing this way again in a few weeks. Off with ye.” The crew streamed down the gangplank save for the few glum souls left behind - those on Sebat’s punishment detail, or those just unlucky enough to still have duty. They’d get their turn at the next stop, but they still looked after their comrades with envious eyes.

“Why sundown, Sebat?” asked Jonnar as they descended in company. Ahead of them, the last of the crew had disappeared into the tavern, and shouts emanated from within. The reddish light seen through the window flickered and brightened, as if in surprise. “We’re not going to set off in the dark, surely?”

Sebat leaned toward them, eyes flickering toward the town and back. “Captain doesn’t like the look of this place,” he confided. “Has an ill-favored feel to the air, he says. Now that I’m on shore, I don’t know but what I agree with him. After the Crack opened, and places were cut off…well, some of them turned strange, is all, and they haven’t turned back just yet.” He looked around at the grey houses seen between wisps of slow-moving fog, several people staring back at them as they paused at the end of the dock. The harbormaster leaned back on a chair against the wall of his shack and eyed them, but said nothing. Gryx nodded agreement, and Jonnar said “I see what you mean. Sundown it is, then!”

“Good shopping to you both,” rumbled Sebat. “I’ve a list of supplies the Captain needs, so I’ll be fortunate if I make it to the tavern before the cutoff, myself. Raise a cup for me, and I’ll see you back aboard.” He moved off and was quickly lost in the swirling mists. Gryx and Jonnar set off up the hill, and quickly found themselves at the top. They paused for a moment, savoring the warmth of the rising sun and squinting as their eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed brightness. From here, the bluff sloped quite gently back away from the river, and farmers had cleared the land for quite a space. They could still see the edge of the forest, a thin green line that began where the land took a sharp upturn again

Around them, the houses were tall, gabled, and painted in bright colors. They could see new buildings in various stages of construction, and people bustled in and out of shops in a far more animated fashion than their fellow townsfolk below. There was laughter and the squeal of children at play - that the latter was often stilled in amazement when Gryx hove into view. Jonnar waved, and some of the braver waved back. Gryx tried smiling at one little girl, but her yes widened and she slipped behind a tree, peeping out after they’d passed. Gryx shrugged, still smiling. She then turned her attention to Jonnar, who was darting about from shop to shop like a minnow in a pond.

“Gryx! Look at this! Do we need any carvings? Or wait! How about a glass flute? Oh - clothes!” He made a dash forward, but stopped, sniffing. “On the other hand - yes, come on!” He dragged Gryx along to a bakery from which delicious smells wafted. The baker, a portly, serious fellow, sold them the loaves Gryx asked for and patiently added the muffin, small cake, flatbread, and everything else that Jonnar excitedly pointed at. Afterwards, they sat in a little garden behind the shop, with ivy climbing up trellises and a low stone wall right on the edge of the bluff. Looking over, they could see the spires and chimneys of the lower town, but anything closer to the ground was covered in fog. Atop the wall, regally unconcious of the drop below was a black-striped grey cat, who washed itself thoroughly and then settled on its paws and closed its eyes. It wasn’t sleeping, so much as devoting all its attention to what it could hear, for though its eyes were tightly closed, its ears kept a constant swiveling as one sound or another caught its attention.

Jonnar chattered on, while in the shop behind the baker moved back and forth. At one point, the baker brought out a tray of freshly baked muffins “just for them to try, on the house, very tasty, yes?” Jonnar broke off a bit and offered it to the cat who sniffed disdainfully at it and settled back down to sleep again, content in the knowledge that its little kingdom was getting on with things as usual.

Gryx noticed the light getting brighter. The colors of the walls and the surrounding houses became almost painfully saturated. The sounds of the town – the children’s laughter, the clopping of horses along the street – by contrast became muted. Except for the cat’s purring, which became louder and louder until it thundered in her ears. Beside her, Jonnar had fallen silent, and she turned her head, much more slowly than she’d intended, a languorous movement instead of the alarmed quick movement she’d thought she was performing. Jonnar’s jaw hung slackly open, and his eyes were staring out over the small wall at the swirling fog below. Gryx leapt to her feet, and the world wobbled around her head, and when it cleared she discovered she hadn’t moved at all, but was still sitting, blinking stupidly at the cat. The cat continued purring with the volume of waves crashing on the shore, and opened its eyes to look directly at her. The light was far too bright, the colors a rainbow wash around her, but as she focused on the cat, she noticed that darkness was creeping in from around the edges of her vision. This was something of a relief against the brightness, though as the darkness encroached, she felt dimly that she ought to be concerned about it. Just before it obscured her vision completely, she could swear she saw the cat’s eye-whiskers move up and down, the feline equivalent of a shrug. And then everything was black.

[X]

(The River of Fog, part 2)

“Please, guests,” said the captain, “My cabin is this way, where we may discuss matters.” He gestured, and they followed him to the stern. Down a short flight of steps was a small door, and beyond it an equally small room. There was just enough room for a small desk behind which was a chair. The desk was flanked by a bunk on one side, over which a curtain was half-lowered, and a shelf holding books and instruments on the other. It was low, and Gryx and Jonnar had to stoop to avoid the beams. It was painted white, which added to the meager grey light coming in through the three stern windows.

“Please,” the captain said courteously to Gryx, gesturing at the chair. “I see you are injured.” Gryx nodded her thanks, and the captain and Jonnar remained standing, Jonnar tightly gripping the sack.

“My name is Wern Pon Asthe, and I am captain of the Fogdancer. A fanciful name, perhaps, but a practical, hard-working vessel. We are a trading ship, bringing goods from towns all along the length of the river to Cape Silver on the coast. We are not piratical in nature, so you may loosen your deathgrip on your belongings, young man. I have no interest in taking them from you by force.” He smiled thinly at Jonnar, who relaxed a fraction.

“First things first. You are injured - are you in need of immediate healing?”

Gryx and Jonnar shook their heads, Jonnar with a quiet “No, thank you, Captain. It is kind of you to ask.”

“Second question - you are quite clearly adventurers of some sort. On you, my fearsome quiet lass, I see no fewer than four weapons about your person, and I trust a few more hidden away as well?”

Gryx grinned and nodded.

“So my next question must be - and I charge you, answer me truthfully - is anyone chasing you? Have I endangered my vessel or crew by bringing you aboard?”

They shook their heads. Jonnar plucked up his courage and said shyly “We were on a quest, Captain Asthe, but we are on our way home now. The quest is done. This is Gryx the Delineator, and she has killed the wizard Ugtok, and freed the lands from his evil magic!”

“Indeed?” The captain cocked an eye at Gryx. “Truth be told, we had heard some tidings of this nature before leaving the dock. If this is indeed so, then I congratulate you. Now then.” He smiled, and again clasped his hands behind his back. “As a practical man, while I value the safe passage eradicating the wizard will bring in the future, I’m afraid I must defray my expenses now. May I see the color of your coin?”

“No coin,” Gryx spoke at last. “These.” She reached into the sack again, and taking a breath, pulled out the same small golden sphere as before. She gripped it tightly, grimacing. Holding it felt like holding a sack of constantly biting vipers, as the magic sought a way either into her or away to the nearest, more vulnerable person. Jonnar stepped back, but the captain leaned forward, peering intently though he was careful not to touch it. It was, truly, hard to look at. The air around the sphere was distorted and wriggling, as if it was burning hot.

“I see,” the captain said at last. “Yes, I think that should be sufficient. Please, do not distress yourself further. Here.” He drew a key from out his blouse, where it hung on a chain and opened a heavy chest in the corner, and Gryx thankfully dropped the seething sphere into it, where it hit with a clank. The captain smoothly closed the lid before they could see what else was there.

“I know many people in Cape Silver who will be glad to pay for such a thing, and pay well. This certainly covers your passage, and more besides. I will, of course accommodate you in the best room.” Gryx started to shake her head, but the captain held up his hand, smiling. “For these reasons: 1. You are injured, and need a quiet place to heal. 2. If, as I suspect, there are more of these little trinkets in your bag, you would be advised to keep them in a safer place than carrying them about in that sack. I trust my men – to a reasonable extent. No need to put further temptation in their way, if you understand me. And lastly, forgive me, but you are a woman.”

Gryx’s eyebrows drew together and Jonnar opened his mouth to protest. Again, the captain held up his hand. “My friends, please. I have no doubt whatsoever that you, my lady, are perfectly capable of fending off any unwanted advances with ease. But I would feel I had been a discourteous host if I subjected you to the trouble. Also, in the course of discouraging the more, ah, enthusiastic suits, you might inadvertently damage them, and then I would have to find new crew in one of the river towns along the way. As I say, I trust my crew, I am familiar with them, and I have no desire to replace any of them unnecessarily. As you see, practical reasons as well as gentlemanly ones.” He smiled again, and this time Gryx smiled back and nodded in assent. “Splendid. I will have someone show you to Sebat’s quarters. I would give you mine, but truth be told, his room is the larger of the two, if only slightly, and he has done a better job of making it comfortable. He will not mind in the least.”

“Now,” he grew solemn again. “I have said that we will be wending downriver to Cape Silver. Will you be joining us for the entire trip, or leaving us at an earlier stop?”

Gryx shook her end. “Cape is good.” She glanced at Jonnar. “From there, take ‘nother ship, ‘round the coast. Fastest, I think.” Jonnar nodded in agreement.

“Splendid,” the captain repeated. “In that case –” He crossed to the door, opened it and shouted “Lop!” in a voice that sounded like it could not have come from such a slight man. There was a faint “Aye sir!” and the sound of steps approaching along the planking. “Lop will lead you to your quarters. After that, you may come and go as you wish, although I would ask you to stay out of the way of the men as they work. If you have any concerns, please let Sebat know. Welcome, my friends, and I hope we will have a quiet and swift journey.” He smiled again, somewhat wryly. “I always hope that, and sometimes it even works out that way. Until later.”

“Thank you,” Gryx said, and Jonnar chimed in and nodded agreement.

Lop waited at the doorway, cap in hand and without a word, led them away. He showed them the main passageways, the head forward, the galley, and finally Sebat’s cabin. It was indeed slightly larger, but the size was lost in the din of bright colors – hangings on the walls, carpet on the floor, paint where there was no fabric. After the greyness surrounding them, it was a visual shout. Sebat popped his head in a little later, and grinned when they complimented him on his decorating skills. “Ah, grey is all we see, the whole voyage up and down the river. You get starved for color after a very short while.” He handed over his key and promised to send someone to fetch them for dinner.

When they were alone, Jonnar wanted to ask questions, of course, but she was suddenly more tired than she could remember in a long while. resting her crutch on the floor, she gratefully sank into Sebat’s bunk and fell asleep almost immediately.

When she awoke, it was dark. She couldn’t tell how long she had slept, but it felt long. She rose and lit the candle in the sconce above the bunk. Jonnar was nowhere to be seen. The sack was piled unobtrusively in a corner. She laid her sword on it, as another friendly warning, then left, locking the door behind her. After visiting the head, she went on deck and could finally stretch properly - although stabbing pains in her side and leg made that less satisfying than usual.

The fog was still with them, washing across the deck like the ghost of water. She moved toward the prow, but could not see anything ahead. The lantern hung on the prow projected a clearly-seen beam forward, but it ended in more swirling grey without showing anything. A slight lightening on either side of the dark bulk of the balloon told her that she had slept all night, and that it was nearly dawn. She moved back toward the stern, past the midships lanterns, their beams facing outward, red on one side and green on the other. She climbed the small ladder that led to the raised platform - the ceiling of the captain’s cabin, she realized. Sebat was there, as was the pilot, holding the wheel. He didn’t seem to be looking anywhere in particular, and she had no idea how he could see to steer anyway. She nodded to Sebat, who stood by the rear lantern, glowing redly in the darkness, and he returned her nod. “We tried to wake you for dinner,” he said quietly, voice a low rumble in the darkness. “But we couldn’t wake you. Your friend seemed to think you needed rest anyway. But if you are hungry, the watch changes soon, and there will be food then.”

She realized she was hungry, and smiled in appreciation. But her hunger was for more than food. She gestured around, at the gas bag above, at the river around. “What ship this? No ship I know. Why always fog? Where river?”

Sebat laughed quietly. “We’ve spent the night answering those same questions - and many, many others from your friend. But I will tell you again, for it is a story passing strange, and I find I need to tell it many times just to wrap my own head around it.” He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I’m told you…killed Ugtok the wizard?”

She made a noise of assent.

“That was good work. He was a bad one. Good riddance.” He spat over the side. “Before you came along, he was a plague to these lands. You weren’t the first to try it, mind you. Other adventurers sent by various kings and governments. Other wizards, looking to steal his power. He beat them all, easily - contemptously.” He glanced at her, and she realized that it was getting light enough to see his silhouette against the lightening grey. “I would very much like to hear how you succeeded where so many failed.”

“You first,” she replied.

“Very well. A story half-finished can take the listener anywhere, so they say.” He sat back on a convenient chest, and she rested against the railing close by. “Aye, well, as I say, many tried, and in their attempts, there was little regard for the land around them. It could be worse, I suppose - you’ve heard of the New Desert?” Upon her nod, he continued. “Fertile hills and grassland that was, before the Twin Wizards ambushed Ugtok while he was out on some dark errand. And now look at it. He departed, and left their bones bleaching in the middle of a great wasteland.” He shook his head. “Well. The most powerful wizard to attack Ugtok was Laughing Alsyndar, the Mad Mage. You’ve heard of him?”

She shook her head.

“Well, the stories I could tell of him…but for now, let’s just say the things that made him laugh were not such that you or I would find very amusing.

“The river used to be called –”

“Great Korghi.”

Sebat looked at her in surprise. “That’s right, originally. After the big creatures away down south.”

“Yah,” Gryx smiled. “Hunted them, once. Fun!”

“And extremely dangerous, when roused. As the beast, so the river. Usually torpid, flowing slowly southward, but capable of sudden storms. In more recent years, we who live alongside it just called it The Great Lazy. It had a source, up in the mountains to the north. Have you ever been there?”

Gryx shook her head.

“I was, once, before…” Sebat’s voice trailed away, then he spoke again. “Beautiful it was, and cold. Well…that was where the Mad Mage fought Ugtok. As usual, the surrounding land was laid waste. Ugtok must have known about the attack, however, and I suspect he chose that place for battle for a reason. After days of fighting, Ugtok cracked the land open under the lake and summoned forth an enormous – I don’t know what. Part beast, part magic, all malevolence and teeth and claws. The creature grabbed Alsyndar and dragged him below, and for all I know they are still fighting. But I believe the Mad Mage is dead and devoured. And Ugtok laughed at the devastation he caused and went west.”

“River?” prompted Gryx, after Sebat was silent for a moment.

“Mmm? Oh. Well, the rising of the beast – and it was enormous, so large it blotted out the stars – cracked the land under the river, all the way to the coast. The water vanished below in an instant. Yes,” he said to her raised eyebrow. “There is something underneath, a cavern vast and cold, full of fog and who knows what else? The fog boils to the surface and lays in the bed where the river once was.”

“I am sure you are wondering if anyone has gone below. You look the sort to ask that kind of question. The answer is, there have been several expeditions, and countless other foolhardy adventurers trying their luck. Go on, guess if any have returned.”

Gryx’s shoulders shook in a mirthless laugh.

“Indeed. But the towns alongside what used to be the river were desperate. They depended on the trade and goods the river brought, for the river traced a line of civilization through many a barren, trackless land. Without it, what were they to do?

“And then someone had a clever thought. It was known there were strong winds, just below the cracked riverbed. Strong winds, blowing without end, while above ground the air is as lazy as it ever was. I suspect that is what happened to many of the expeditions – the winds plucked them from the cavern walls like so much fluff. But, if we could just modify the ships and barges somewhat…”

He gestured around them. “And here you have it. One of the first of the fogships. The hot air in the bag above keeps us aloft, while below – you might not have seen this yet – mighty masts full of sails. Yes,” he said in answer to her incredulous look. “We dip our little fingers down into that vast cavern just far enough to grab the winds and propel us onward. It sounds crazy, does it not? And yet,” another encompassing gesture. “Here we are. This will be her third trip down the river and back, and there is great activity in the dockyards wherever we have passed before. Soon, the river traffic will be as teeming as it once was.”

Gryx slowly hook her head in wonder. Suddenly, a bell rang out. There was the sound of moving feet below decks. Sebat stood.

“Ah, but I have talked the sun up, and it is time for my breakfast, and yours, I’ll wager. A moment, and I will accompany you below. And after breakfast, if you like, I will take you farther below, and you can see for yourself what lies beneath.”

Gryx eagerly rose. Around her the fog had changed from a black cloud to a grey, shifting wall. She stretched again, stopped short again, and followed Sebat below.

[X]

(The River of Fog, Part 1)

The next day they set out. Gryx had chosen a stout stick in order to ease the journey on her ankle. Though well-bound and healing, it was still tender enough that she didn’t want to put a whole day’s weight on it. Jonnar had taken the brnach she’d chosen, made her stand up, measured it, added a cross-piece to the top and padded it with the last of his clothes to make a highly serviceable crutch. She leaned on it while she watched him bury the creature – he’d insisted. Then, among the small rustlings and drippings of a waking forest at daybreak, they set out.

She’d always intended to head straight back to the kingdom, even without Jonnar’s extra plea last night. No sense in taking the scenic way around, and she had other things to do once this quest was done. But last night she had reviewed the route and came to the conclusion that, especially until her ankle healed fully, there might be a shorter way. Longer in distance, perhaps, but shorter in time.

Accordingly, she gauged the direction as best she could with the light that grew slowly stronger, and headed off. Even with an injured ankle, they made good time. She swung from crutch to foot in a bodily sing-song that was surprisingly easy to get used to, with Jonnar trotting after. Around them, the forest creatures led their busy lives. She spotted many of them, eyes continuously darting back and forth, ever watchful. But the woods seemed more wholesome today than before – with Ugtok no longer poisoning it with magic, it would heal.

They came upon the river at mid-afternoon. They could see it through the trees before they reached it – the sun overhead reflected whitely between bush and bole. “Not far now,” Jonnar cried, “All this walking has made me so thirsty.” Gryx grinned to herself, but said nothing. The undergrowth increased as they approached the river, and between her leg and ankle, and (after using the crutch all day, no matter how padded) her sore armpit, it was harder going than she would have cared to admit. They came suddenly upon it, the trees and bushes giving way just as the ground dropped three feet to a narrow strip of ground. She stood there for a moment, resting, while Jonnar looked, open-mouthed.

The entire space between the trees was covered in mist, so much so that you could not see the water beneath. Nor could you hear it – there was a hush over the river that there had not been in the busy, chattering forest. Gryx listened intently, but there was only the sound of wind – a long, soughing that spoke of deep places. The mist, however, drifted slowly, in no particular hurry.

Jonnar, on the other hand, was quite thirsty. He shucked the pack and slid down the embankment. He looked down in astonishment - the fog was so thick, he could barely see his feet. He shuffled forward, and the fog grew thicker. He looked back, and saw Gryx on the bank, flat and grey through the swirling cloud. He turned, to move forward again, when Gryx spoke. “Wait.”

Jonnar stopped, one foot in the air. He’d learned to listen carefully when Gryx spoke, and to obey immediately. He slowly turned his head back over his shoulder to look at her.

Gryx frowned in perplexity, then with an effort, slid down to join Jonnar below the bank. She moved ahead slowly, testing the ground with her crutch. It disappeared into the fog, met the ground with a reassuring thunk again and again – until it didn’t, right in front of where Jonnar was to step. He turned white, his color matching the fog swirling around him, and put his foot down a step behind. Gryx leaned forward, waving the crutch around, but it met nothing. She bent down and scooped up some rocks with her left hand. She tossed them around her methodically. In a line roughly parallel to the bank upstream and down, they thudded reassuringly into the unseen ground. But as far as she could gently toss in front of them (She could have thrown them across to the other bank, but that wouldn’t have been helpful) they simply disappeared, leaving small holes in the cloud that quickly refilled with swirling mist.

“Listen,” she said at last, and Jonnar cocked his head. The sighing wind had become louder, and they both noticed at the same time that the mist by their feet was much colder. He looked at her. “What does it mean, Gryx?”

“Back,” she said at last. She turned and limped backward, and Jonnar assisted her up the bank. They stood for a while, watching the mist swirl. At last, Gryx shook her head. “No water,” she said. “Fog, just.”

“But…but how can that be?” asked Jonnar. “If there’s no water, where does it all come from?” Disappointment tinged his tone. “And I was so thirsty.”

She handed him her waterskin, which was still half-full. He tried to protest, but she forced it into his hand. “Drink, then make camp,” she said, looking at the sky. The afternoon had gotten darker, the fog in front of them beginning to merge with clouds hurrying in from the west. She was right. Before too long, it had started to rain. Jonnar had made a lean-to covered with leaves to keep them dry, then used fresh leaves to catch the falling water and refill their waterskins. While he was busy, Gryx stared at the fog moving by. The rain seemed to depress it a little, but not enough to see what was beneath it. It had a larger effect on Jonnar, and left him bereft of his usual chatter. They fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering down on the leaves overhead.

The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the lowering clouds weighed on the night and did not let it escape quickly, come the dawn. Thus, they slept later than usual until something made Gryx open her eyes, sleep banished from them in an instant. Beside her, Jonnar snored quietly. She stood up, grabbed her crutch, and limped toward the bank. She could already feel her ankle was better; just a little stiff this morning, a bit of exercise would see it all right again. She stood on the bank, looking out onto the greyish wall in front of her. And then heard it again - voices! Faint, and floating like the fog itself, they could be coming from either direction. But - yes, there they were again. Men’s voices, shouting, but not panicked or in anger…yes, working men’s voices, shouting to get a job done. And coming closer.

She moved back to the lean-to and woke Jonnar. He packed up while she stood, straining her ears. With the usual sound-deadening property of fog, it was impossible to tell how far away the voices were, until – there! Something moved through the fog, coming around the upstream bend. An enormous rounded shape…with something beneath it? The voices suddenly louder, and all it once the fog fled before it and they could see it clearly. Jonnar’s mouth dropped open, and even Gryx raised her eyebrows, for this was a wonder new to her.

An enormous bag, shaped like a pointed sausage, was floating toward them through the fog. Slung beneath was what looked like a normal boat of the barge variety – round prow, straight sides, the keel hidden in the fog, attached to the bag overhead with dozens of nets made of thick cord. Men moved about the deck, just silhouettes through the fog, performing various tasks they couldn’t make out. The entire ship moved surely and majestically as if it was floating on water. They watched it approach until it was just a few hundred yards away, then Gryx drew a deep breath and shouted “Hoy!”

At once, there was a flurry on the ship as everyone stopped and looked to the bank. Jonnar raised both his hands and waved. “We seek passage!” Gryx continued to shout. All the men on board turned to the lone figure in the back, who made no move. Jonnar’s arm waving became more frantic. “We pay!” Gryx cried loudly, holding up the sack.

That produced a result. The figure in the back barked several quick orders. Another flurry of activity, but to what purpose Gryx could not see, and the ship slowed considerably. It was abreast of them now, and nearly stationary. The figure in the back shouted “Drop anchor!” in a surprisingly deep voice. There was a rattle and clonk somewhere in the fog, and the ship stopped. The figure approached the rail. Now that he was closer, Gryx could see he was a powerfully built man, with a barrel-chest and thick, black beard. His skin was dark, constrasting with the bright red bandanna on his head.

“We don’t usually pick up strangers off the riverbank,” he called to them. “But you said something that intrigues us. Something about pay!” The men working around him laughed. “Show us what you have, and we’ll welcome you aboard!”

For answer, Gryx opened the sack, and grabbed at random. Jonnar hissed in alarm, but Gryx ignored him and rummaged through the bag. Grimacing, she selected an item and held it above her head. It glittered dully in the grey light, but glittered all the same, awakening an answering glitter in the eyes of the boatman. Gryx could feel the magic thrashing about in the bauble, trying to break free, but she held on grimly while the man considered.

“You may have more in that bag of yours, or maybe that’s your only treasure,” he called at last. “It’s enough to warrant a closer look, any road. You may come aboard.” He turned to give some orders in a lower voice, then turned back. “Your passage price is still to be discussed!”

The ship warped in as close to the bank as possible. At a word from the commander, a plank was pushed over the side, with flaring brands tied to the bottom. Gryx eyed the plank, gauging its direction, then handed the sack to Jonnar. “Hold on,” she directed, and with his hand on her shoulder again, they plunged into the fog.

It was still slow work, feeling ahead every step with her crutch, but with a straight line in her head, they made quick progress. It was not long before she could see the sputtering light that marked the end of the plank. She put her weight on it, testing, and it seemed firm enough. She stepped on, and Jonnar gripped her shoulder. “Can we trust them, do you think?” he asked doubtfully. She reached back and shook the sack. “Until this on board, yah,” she said quietly. “After…” she did not finish the sentence, but Jonnar understood. He squared his shoulders, and marched boldly after her.

They were helped over the side by several grinning men, and she eyed them carefully. They were not cleanly, but working men at work seldom were. There was a wide range in age, but most were toward the middle aged end of the range, with only one old man and only two boys. The dark man in the bandanna nodded to them as they stood on deck warily. “Welcome, if only for the moment,” he said in his deep voice. “You may call me Sebat. I am the first mate aboard the Fogdancer, aboard which you, by all appearances, are quite lucky to be. Some bad adventures in the forest, I’ll be bound?”

Jonnar began to speak, but Gryx held up her hand. “Gryx,” she said, pointing to herself. “Jonnar. Talk pay first. Where captain?”

“He is here,” said a quiet voice behind them. They turned to find a small, older man standing calmly behind them, his hands clasped behind his back. “Sebat, get us under way again. I do not disagree with your decision to stop, but let us not lose more time.”

“Aye, sir,” Sebat answered, and started issuing orders. Within moments, he was back on the raised platform in the stern, and the Fogdancer was moving past the riverbank again, the trees slipping in and out of visibility in a narrow corridor as they came their closest, fading immediately away as they passed.

[X]