“DO YOU THINK HE felt anything?” Knockers asked, nervously shifting his crossbow in his hands.
“Fuck, Knockers, enough,” Carny said, squinting up at him from his seat on a fallen tree trunk. The sun was a frayed orange ball behind Knockers, casting him in a glowing shadow. Carny’s head pounded, his eyes itched from lack of sleep, and it was too hot and sticky for this shit again.
“But it was so hot,” Knockers said, ignoring Carny’s anger. “I’ve burnt my hands a few times over the cook fire when I was young and it hurt. A lot. He must have felt something.”
A month gone and two hundred miles north from where Sinte charked, and Knockers still couldn’t let it go. Truth be told, Carny hadn’t forgotten it either. He doubted anyone in Red Shield had, but holy fuck you didn’t keep talking about it.
“High bloody Druid, Knockers, let it go, please. He vanished in a flick. You saw it, I saw it, the whole fucking shield saw it. He couldn’t have felt a thing,” Carny said, trying hard to believe that.
Carny stood up abruptly, brushing ash from his trousers, and looked around. Red Shield was perched on a fire-charred hill surrounded by jungle in the middle of, fuck, it wasn’t even the middle of nowhere. Nowhere was somewhere compared to this. Soldiers were either standing guard or stringing more prick vine around their perimeter while Big Hog whistled as he hacked bamboo stalks into crude stakes to be set into the ground facing outward. The Bard kept tune with his psaltery, sort of, the instrument’s notes vibrating in increasingly odd and jarring ways as he explored “the dark, mystical soul of the Lux” as he put it.
Poor bastard’s going deep in the green, Carny figured, knowing he probably was, too. The jungle still scared Carny, but he’d come to terms with his fear. He’d never be Wraith or Listowk when it came to embracing the black, fetid depths of the jungle at night, but he’d learned how to walk without making noise, keep his crossbow from snagging on a vine, and where to drop his trousers to take a shit without a swarm of army ants trying to crawl up his ass.
Knockers opened his mouth to ask another question, then thought better of it and slowly walked away from Carny. Any sympathy Carny had had for Knockers was long gone. Carny was Lead Crossbow now and that was already more than he needed to deal with. Soldiers that used to bitch and moan to Listowk now came to him. And Listowk expected him to deal with that shit.
Carny sat down and fished into his trouser pockets for a folded leaf with a pinch of Sliver in it. He didn’t find one. There hadn’t been a rag flight to their hill in four days, which meant no supplies, which meant Squeak couldn’t slip some of his special provisions in with the rest of the cargo. Carny was down to a smidge of Wild Flower. He’d used the last of his camphor two days ago and no one else had any left, or so they said.
The distinctive whup-whup-whup of rag wings carried on the air. Carny stood up again, not bothering to brush off his trousers this time. Praise the High Druid, fresh supplies at last!
The hill buzzed as Red Shield scurried to make ready for the rag’s arrival. Listowk shouted orders in a humbler volume than Sinte, and the soldiers listened and obeyed, policing up their gear and clearing the very top of the hill. Between the whirlwind kicked up by the rag’s wings and its tail swishing around like a spinning scythe, anything not firmly tied or weighted down would be blown hundreds of yards into the jungle, never to be seen again.
“Secure your quivers,” Carny said, doing his part to get Red Shield ready without much enthusiasm. Any soldier who didn’t keep his shit tight deserved whatever he got out here.
The rag approached from the west, coming in at a thousand yards above the jungle. Black smoke trailed it, and Carny knew that wasn’t a good sign. The driver had put the gaff to the rag, which meant speed, and they only did that when something was up.
“He’s going too fast to land,” the Bard said, coming to stand beside Carny.
Only a few thousand yards out, the rag continued flying at the same speed and height.
“Maybe he’s new,” Carny said, willing the rag to descend.
At two hundred yards out, a small bundle fell from the rag and landed on the far side of the hill as the beast flew overhead and kept on flying, no doubt heading for the other shields dotted over the hills for miles around.
“Tell me that’s a message saying a flock of rags is heading our way with gallons of mead, fresh bread, and real meat,” Carny said, pointing at Listowk as a soldier handed him the satchel dropped from the rag.
Listowk slowly opened the flap and pulled out a single piece of paper and read it. When he was done, he put the paper back in the satchel and closed the flap. His mustache rolled up and down under his nose as he seemed to ponder what to say.
“Fuck, SL, what?” Carny said, speaking for all of them.
Listowk shrugged. “No supplies, but tomorrow morning they’re flying in to take us off this little hill of ours.”
There were smiles and even a few cheers, but mostly from the newer soldiers.
“What’s the catch?” Carny asked.
Listowk looked to the sky before answering.
“Instead of another hill, they’ve found us a valley.”
“YOU’RE PRETTY, LIKE ONE of those oil paintings, only your skin is smoother.”
League of Worldly Fellowship crier Miska Hounowger massaged her temples. She sat near the front of a young bull dragon named Carduus, just behind the female thaum, Breeze. Miska had tried to talk to her, but Breeze made it clear that she was not to be disturbed while in flight. Doing so would result in a “kick where you split.” Miska had never heard a woman, let alone one who was a thaum, speak so crudely. Miska found Breeze that much more fascinating.
“Real pretty,” Wiz said, beaming a smile at her.
The driver, Flock Commander Astol, yelled something at Carduus, who bellowed in response. The vibration went up through her saddle, shaking her entire innards. She took the opportunity to look away and out at the land passing below them.
Luitox was carpeted in a verdant, startling, vast jungle. She had never seen anything like it. It was made all the more overwhelming by the occasional rows of palm trees and fruit orchards and the square and rectangular dosha swamps of shimmering brown that offered the eye a contrast. And through it all there seemed to always be at least one thick, fat brown river snaking its way toward the coast.
It was harvest season back in the Kingdom, but this land obviously didn’t know it. Miska knew that foreign lands experienced the seasons differently, but it was still surprising. The sun beat down on the jungle with wave after wave of shimmering heat, which served to propel the towering trees ever higher into the sky. The leaves, far from turning and falling, grew fatter and greener. She wondered if they ever stopped growing.
Miska smiled and shook her head. She was letting Luitox get to her. She took pride in the fact that she was a “woman of character,” the term favored by traditionalists for renegades who didn’t conform, especially women who were educated. Miska always thought that unfair. Yes, she was educated, but she could also cook, understood the basic principles of cleaning even if she didn’t practice them, and believed that had she met a man of equal character she would have had a family. As for knowing her place, well, she was still figuring that out and happy to do so on her own.
The wind picked up, which meant the rag had gained speed. She watched its massive wings go up and down. It was mesmerizing. So much power and grace contained in an animal of unimaginable fury. She saw a little of herself in the dragon. She was more than people saw, more even than they wanted her to be.
“Nice day,” the Wizard said, trying again.
Unlike the other soldiers—unsurprisingly, Miska conceded—the shield’s wizard looked less like a soldier and more like a traveling beggar, although to be fair they all looked exceedingly scruffy. Wiz, as he’d been introduced to her, took that scruffiness to a new level. Three different canvas satchels bulging with various weeds, strips of bark, mushrooms, and small glass vials were slung over his shoulders. More curious, he’d clearly removed several of the protective iron plates sewn into his aketon and stuffed the empty pockets with all manner of flowers and herbs.
“Do you really use all that?” she asked, motioning to his miniature garden.
The Wiz looked down at his chest then back at her. “Depends. If someone’s got the Lux Pox real bad, then I try a bit of everything.”
“Lux Pox?”
“It’s like a rash, only nastier,” the Wiz said, leaning forward.
Miska smelled bright green scents, a tangy one she couldn’t place, and just a touch of cinnamon.
“Is it contagious?”
The Wiz smiled brightly. “Only if you rub your privates against someone else’s. It usually settles in the crotch area. Burns like hot embers. Gets all pus-y, too, but that’s actually a good sign. It’s when you get the boils that—”
Miska held up her hand. She would not be relaying these interesting facts back to the people of the Kingdom.
“So, you’re with the Bleeding Hearts society, are you?” the Wiz asked.
Miska shifted in her saddle and wondered if she’d made a mistake coming to Luixtox. The battle for the future of the Kingdom was taking place back home, not out here. And yet, she’d heard enough stories at the pubs from soldiers who had returned that made her think more was going on in Luitox than the people were being told.
The closer she got to Luitox, however, the more she doubted everything she thought she knew. The rag she’d been flying on had stopped at Swassi Island. A rambling sanitarium covered a third of the island, but was divided in two. Men were housed in the north in crude but solid-enough huts while sick and wounded dwarves were housed to the south under little more than canvas tarps over a mat of palm fronds. The more things changed . . .
Miska sighed and turned to face the soldiers of Red Shield riding on the rag with her. More than one stared at her like a lovelorn puppy. She’d found this male attention flattering, once, when she was a girl. Now, long into spinsterhood at thirty-one, it was a briar patch of pricks she would just as soon burn to ash.
“League of Worldly Fellowship,” Miska said, not rising to the bait. “We believe that all the lands and all the races should live together in peace and harmony and that no one is better than anyone else.”
“You haven’t met the slyts yet then,” someone said, eliciting laughter.
Slyts. It was an ugly, ugly word. Why men had to be so crude and so cruel she didn’t understand.
“If I may, I was hoping to talk to you some more about the murder of King Wynnthorpe,” she said, adopting a stern look. “It must be very unwelcome news to you.”
“They say he wasn’t the real king anyway, so what does it matter?” the soldier named Big Hog said, lifting his head from his arms long enough to chime in. The big fellow didn’t seem that keen on flying. There was a pale green tinge about him. Miska would have to get his real name later. All the soldiers had been introduced to her by nicknames. It was the oddest thing to rename everyone, but she’d found it prevalent throughout the army. Even the thaums were going by monikers, like Breeze.
“Legitimate or not, he was assassinated,” she said, surprised she was struggling to impart the significance of this. “An arrow shot from over a hundred yards away went in his left eye and out the back of his skull while he was riding in his carriage.”
“What was the wind?”
Miska jumped, unaware a soldier had settled in behind her. How had he done that? She turned and saw the one they called Wraith. He was a thin, serious-looking man with dark eyes and a gaunt face that suggested less a soldier and more a . . . predator.
“The wind?”
“A head shot from a hundred yards into a moving carriage. Tail wind?”
Miska shook her head. “I have no idea, but that’s really not the point. There hasn’t been a royal assassination in over one hundred years. The Kingdom is in turmoil. No one cares about the wind.”
“The assassin did,” Wraith said, standing up and nonchalantly walking along the back of the rag toward its tail.
News of the king’s assassination had reached the Lux inside of a day, and that was over a week ago, but this was the first time these troops were hearing details from someone in the know. Still, most of them seemed far more fascinated by her breasts—or the wind of all things—than by the world-shaking news she had to convey.
“The Druid Council should assume command,” Ahmy said, staring at Miska with something that felt a lot like hate. The skin on his boyish face was taut over his cheekbones, as if he were in a perpetual state of trying to control his rage. “The Kingdom needs the saving grace of the High Druid now more than ever.”
“Fuck your council, Ahmy,” Lead Crossbowman Carny said. Actually, it was more a mumble, as his left cheek was filled with some kind of chaw. A dark brown liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His eyes were slightly glazed, as if he hadn’t slept well. “It don’t mean shit out here. We march, we fly, we fight, and then we do it all again. King, queen, druid . . . won’t make a damn bit of difference to us.”
Most of the soldiers on the rag nodded. Miska had heard rumors of discontent among the legions in Luitox from the returning veterans, but she’d put that down to a few bad apples. It appeared there was far more to it after all.
“How long have you been over here?” she asked.
“Six months for most of us,” Big Hog said. The other soldiers appeared comfortable with his speaking for the group. “Knockers there came in a couple of months ago with the big sail,” he said, referring to the influx of nine additional legions that was supposed to end the war.
“I ain’t the new guy,” Knockers said, taking his pipe out of his mouth to talk. It wasn’t lit, and hadn’t been since Miska arrived, but the soldier puffed on it as if it were. None of the other soldiers seemed to notice anything was amiss, so she said nothing. “Frogleg’s the new guy. Came over two weeks ago, fuckin’ fawn.”
“I don’t think I met him,” Miska said, wondering what in the world had led to that name.
“He’s riding on Cytisus,” Knockers said, using his pipe to point at one of the other dragons flying in formation with Carduus.
Miska looked. Stretched out behind Carduus like a flock of geese, the other five dragons in Obsidian Flock flew in single echelon to the right—starboard—of Carduus, each one a healthy two hundred yards behind the one in front. It was a truly awe-inspiring sight.
Carduus coughed, and a cloud of black smoke and sulfur engulfed her. She gagged, but truth be told, it was a nice change from the gamey odor given off by the soldiers, all save Wiz. She looked at them a little more closely once the smoke cleared and tried to come up with something more than scruffy to describe them. Were they to show up on the streets of the capital today they’d be mistaken for brigands instead of the bright-eyed warriors of civilization that had marched onto ships to set sail for Luitox.
Their helms weren’t polished. In fact, most were deliberately covered in mud and vegetation. When she first saw them she thought they had chunks of sod on their heads. Few, if any, wore greaves, while their sleeveless aketons might as well have been dishrags stitched together by blind beggars. Only their weapons were well maintained. The heavy, mean-looking crossbows; the elegantly curved hunting bows; and the array of daggers, knives, hewers, and even axes bristling from their belts and pockets and the tops of their boots looked every bit as lethal as they had the day they were made.
They were a contradiction she didn’t yet understand, but then that’s why she was here. Her official orders, like those of all the criers sent to Luitox, were to tell the troops that everything back in the Kingdom was fine. Yes, she could admit that the king’s death was very unfortunate, but she was to tell them that they should rest assured a proper succession was in place and all would be well.
Carny’s right, it don’t mean shit out here.
“Carny—excuse me, Lead Crossbowman, I’d very much like to understand what is going on out here in the . . . Lux,” she said, deliberately hesitating before using their term.
Soldiers smiled; a couple even winked. Carny stared at her for several flicks, then turned and spit before turning back. She took that as a good sign.
“You want to know what’s really going on out here in the Lux?”
“I do,” she said, leaning forward. The wind whipped the top of her tunic and she felt the warm sun flash on exposed bosom and made no attempt to cover herself. You used what you had. “And I owe it to you, all of you, to tell the people back home what’s really going on out here.”
This time Carny nodded. The dull look in his eyes cleared and he sat up a little straighter.
“First off, you hear anyone say that the slyts out here are nothing but cowards with all the fight of a dandelion on a windy day, you don’t believe him. Ol’ Faery Crud is about the cunningest, meanest little fucker you ever want to tangle with, and that’s no lie.”
“Fucking right about that,” Big Hog said, not bothering to lift his head. Even Ahmy nodded.
“Faery Crud?”
“Fuckin’ C’s, Forest Collective . . . Faery Crud.”
They were creating a whole new language out here. Miska widened her eyes and allowed the hint of a smile to brighten her face. There was a future in relaying events from one land to another, she just knew it. The royal criers would tell the populace that all was well even as the walls crumbled around them. She had a chance to tell the people what was really going on. That was more than a future—that was power.
“I had no idea,” she said, genuinely intrigued. “This is all so fascinating. Please, tell me more.”
“SKY HORSE LEADER, this is Blue Charger. I am coming in on your port side. Let your army ants know we’re friendly, clear?”
Vorly glanced in the polished piece of tin Pagath had attached to the top of his crystal sheet. Vorly had been fed up with having a sore neck from turning around to talk to Breeze, so Pagath had come up with the brilliant and simple solution of the mirror. Not only could Vorly see Breeze without turning around, he could view the double row of troops on Carduus’s back, the crier woman, and a fair chunk of the sky behind him filled with the rest of Obsidian Flock. They were flying at three-quarter normal cruise as Cytisus was still not back to form. It’d been two months since his wound and while he was healing, it was a slow process.
A series of three blue lines etched their way onto his sheet, all moving along the same path as that of Obsidian Flock. Vorly reached out and tilted the mirror to scan more sky. It was just midmorning, the sky a light fuzzy blue with barely a skiff of clouds. It wasn’t as hot as Vorly had expected, but he wasn’t disappointed about that unless it meant a storm was blowing in. He’d put the question to the RATs, but to a woman and man they said they couldn’t predict the weather more than a day or so out. Vorly’s left elbow did better than that.
Vorly lowered his chin to use the speaking tube buttoned to the front of his tunic. Pagath was a wonder. He’d fashioned a length of flexible tube using the sticky sap from some trees that when cooked turned into a semihard substance. He’d then wrapped it in linen and attached copper cones to either end. You could speak in one end and your voice, though a bit muffled, came out the other.
“You see them, Breeze?” Vorly asked, looking away from the mirror to scan the rest of the sky. He couldn’t find Blue Charger and his flock.
“Definitely strong on plane and in our vicinity,” she said, the dots of her fingertips skillfully racing across Vorly’s sheet. “They should be right there.”
Vorly hung his head. “I’m getting stupid in my old age. Rolling port.” He lifted his chin, popped a whistle made from a bamboo shoot into his mouth, and gave it a sharp blast. It let the troops riding on Carduus know a turn was about to happen. It was just one more element in an ever-growing manual of procedures that a driver had to know to fly these days. It also reduced the puke, piss, and shit cleanup after a flight, which, Pagath had indicated while waving his hammer about, was a good thing.
Carduus was already banking when Vorly tugged on the rein, tilting him until he was perpendicular to the ground. Bugger learns fast. Vorly was using far less rein and gaff these days on Carduus. Not only did he respond to the whistle, he responded faster.
“Welcome to the party, Blue Charger,” Vorly said, waving at the flight of three rags a thousand yards below them and coming up fast. Vorly blew his whistle again, not bothering to snap the reins at all.
Carduus resumed level flight, a low growl rumbling from deep in his throat.
“Easy, boy, they’re friendly,” Vorly said, patting Carduus.
Blue Charger’s rag rose up beside Carduus two hundred yards to port and dead abreast. The rest of his flock popped up and took position in port echelon with each rag another hundred feet above the one in front. Each rag was puffing hard, leaving trails of black smoke behind them.
Sparkers. Mean little bastards. Barely enough room for the driver and thaum. Looked cramped, especially with the extra layers of clay insulation packed around the two crew members. The walls of their protective cocoon were now two feet high. The joke was the sparker crews were gradually building a house on their rags and when the war was over they’d fly it back home.
“Your rags feeling the cold?” Vorly asked, noticing that each rag’s belly and sides were adorned with steel plates. That’s new. The plates just aft of the rags’ rib cages glowed the brightest, although all the plates were cherry.
“I wish. I’m roasting my fucking balls,” Blue Charger said. “Faery Crud’s been shooting a new kind of arrow. Some kind of crystal tip that’ll punch a hole through scale. One even scratched a talon on Filix.”
Vorly whistled. Talon was the toughest part of a rag. “High fucking Druid. That plate enough to stop them?”
“Flock Command seems to think so,” Blue Charger said, perhaps being circumspect because they were on an open plane. “All I know is it’s slowed our rags down and made them cranky. Still, when they’re cranky, they fire up extra hot. You oughtta see those little slyts burn when—”
“Getting a line from the roost, clear plane,” Vorly said, cutting off Blue Charger. Vorly didn’t need the image of burning slyts in his head today.
“Why didn’t command order plates on our flock?” Breeze asked.
Vorly smiled. At some point in the last few months, Obsidian Flock had become her flock, and she and her thaums every bit a part of it. If only that poor fool Jate could have seen the future. Vorly’s smile drained away. Probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.
“We don’t skim treetops trying to fry slyts on a rag that could ball if it sneezes too hard,” he said, using the euphemism for fireball.
“We do get shot at enough, though,” Breeze said. “I counted thirty-seven patches on Carduus this morning before we launched. That’s six more since last week. Pagath was spitting spikes.”
Vorly had only counted thirty-five. He hadn’t realized Breeze looked over Carduus as well. “I’ll talk to him about it,” he said. Right now he was lead rag in a ten-flock formation of some fifty rags stretching out over four miles of what was very unfriendly jungle. They were three hundred and fifty miles inland and heading deeper west toward some Druid-forsaken valley command decided it wanted. They called it a choke point for most of the western slyts pouring east into Luitox. Stop it up and you end the war. Naturally, Obsidian Flock was delivering the cork.
“Better you than me,” Breeze said.
“Hear any more about that thaum?” Vorly asked, changing the subject.
There was a long pause before Breeze responded. “He’s still blind.”
Vorly didn’t doubt it. It was a wonder the boy had lived at all. “They think he’ll see again?”
“They don’t know. He went deep, on two planes. Thaums don’t usually come back from that.”
“Awarded him the Medal of Courageous Thaumics. Highest medal in your service. That’s something,” Vorly said, wondering now why he’d brought the subject up.
“He’d rather have his sight,” Breeze said.
It wasn’t a rebuke, but Vorly felt the sting all the same. She was right. They could keep all their damn medals. He wanted out of this war with all his parts still attached and working.
“Poor bastard. He deserves better.”
“He says he saw a flash of light this morning. He’s not sure now, but if he did, it might be coming back.”
Vorly felt a little better, then realized what was wrong with that statement.
“We launched predawn, Breeze. How could you know what he saw this morning?”
There was another long pause. Vorly turned around in his saddle to look at Breeze.
“We communicate on plane,” she said, looking up to meet Vorly’s gaze.
Vorly tilted his head. “On plane? But didn’t they send him to that invalid island, Swassi?” Vorly shuddered. He’d only landed on the island once, and that was more than enough. He’d picked up the smell of the crematorium while still ten miles out. Spooked Carduus, too. “That’s nearly eight hundred miles from here.”
Breeze looked back down. “Yes, but Jawn has become adept at extending the range of the crystal. He flies the aether the way Carduus flies the air. It’s . . . it’s amazing.” She looked back up, her eyes misty.
“He almost died. You could have died, too. How in—”
“It’s as safe as anything else we do,” Breeze said, her eyes hardening. “I am safer on plane with him than I am up here with . . . I mean, it’s safe.”
Vorly turned back to face forward. Fuck her.
“Commander, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just meant—”
“Forget it,” Vorly said, staring straight ahead. “What we do ain’t no walk in the meadow.”
The smooth, even beating of Carduus’s wings was the only sound for the next ten miles. Vorly wanted to work up a rage, but it wasn’t in him. Breeze was right; what they did was dangerous. Incredibly so. So why did it bother him so much about the thaum?
“We’re a team up here, but on the ground I guess I need to get used to the idea of sharing you,” Vorly said, cringing as the words came out.
“It’s only ever the three of us up here,” Breeze said.
Vorly smiled, then quickly frowned lest Breeze hear his joy in his voice.
“Sooooo, what’s this I hear about you and Rimsma?” Vorly asked.
“None of your concern,” she said, the gentleness in her voice turning to ice.
“Now, now,” Vorly clucked, “it’s my job to know what my flock is up to. That includes you, too, Breeze.”
“So what, you want to know if he’s fucking me?”
Vorly swallowed a bug and started coughing. “What? Bloody hell, woman, were you raised by wolves? No! I mean, I just, well . . .”
“He’s a gentleman,” Breeze said, her voice softening. “And you’re easy to rattle.”
Vorly looked in the mirror. Breeze was staring at him, a huge smile on her face.
“You little—”
Breeze held up her left hand. “Line coming in.” She lowered her hand and began tracing on the High Plane crystal sheet while her right hand held station on the Low Plane sheet. Vorly had strenuously resisted having a second crystal added to his position and to his amazement he’d been successful, though he doubted it would last.
“It’s a White Three,” Breeze said.
Vorly looked skyward. Anything white was command. A triple line meant the communication on plane was being masked to avoid detection by slyt thaums. It took a significant thaumic process to run a three line. They only did it when something was serious.
“Let me know when,” Vorly said, running his right hand along the braided copper up to the crystal sheet.
“You are good to plane,” Breeze said.
Vorly moved his fingertips onto the crystal sheet. He shuddered. The energy on plane was growing colder week by week. Breeze said it had something to do with the increasing number of thaums and a lot of other stuff that got caught in Vorly’s earwax and never made it to his brain.
“I’m on plane,” Vorly said, watching his sheet. The three line appeared a moment later, seeming to rise up from the depths. Vorly suppressed another shudder and duly circled the three line before touching it in order to access the message.
“Vorly, it’s Walf,” the disembodied voice of Legion Flock Commander Walf Modelar said.
Fuck, he’s using our first names. This can’t be good.
“Plans have changed. Obsidian Flock is staying at Frontier Castle Iron Fist until relieved. I know your flock was due some downtime, but there’s nothing for it. I need you there. Report when you land. Clear.”
Vorly stared at the crystal sheet. “That son of a bitch. He waited until I was in the air to tell me,” Vorly said.
“You’re still on plane,” Breeze reminded him.
Vorly cursed under his breath and slid off plane. He’d promised Master Witch Matilda he’d take her to a fair in Gremthyn when he got back.
“When will you tell them?” Breeze asked.
Vorly pushed the speaking tube away before opening his mouth and screaming every obscenity he knew into the sky. Carduus lifted his head and cast an eye back at Vorly.
Vorly cursed Carduus, Modelar, the Lux, the war, and life in general until his voice gave out.
“I think that will do fine,” Breeze said.