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Foothills of Mount Mars
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Achelous met Outish outside the shift chamber. Their three eenus stood tethered at the entry ramp. Echo piped when she saw Achelous, and he went to check her harness and saddle. The steed fidgeted, restless to get back into open country. He patted her neck. “We’ll be going soon.”
“So you’ve been certified by Field Outfitting?” He looked the young astrobiologist up and down. The reversible genetic alteration from Halorite to human was complete. His fur replaced by smooth, pinkish skin, and he sported the beginnings of a Doroman beard. His long hair was covered by a typical Timberkeep stocking cap that hung to his shoulders. He suspected under the hat were signs of Doroman early pattern baldness. The big nose and prominent cheekbones fit, but the largish ears, a Halorite artifact Field Outfitting apparently could not compensate for, were an anomaly. Achelous smiled inwardly; the Timberkeeps would give him flak over those. The baggy britches, leather vest over a linen shirt, and a heavy draw-tight cape completed Outish's authentic Doroman appearance.
“Yep, I have the gear you recommended, plus some things they suggested.”
Achelous cocked his head. “Have you gotten used to the physiological changes?”
Outish averted his gaze, “Uh, yes, but it’s been a little weird, no fur and all. Very drafty. Just walking is windy. I need lots of clothes to stay warm. And this, this hair—” he scratched his scruffy beard, “it itches!”
Achelous gave him a sympathetic smirk, “We wear clothes. We don’t run around half-naked like you Halorites.” He opened the internist’s cape; it was double-lined with wool over flannel. “Let me check your gear.” He first examined the bags and packs on Outish’s eenu, an older, well-broken steed with the patience of a long summer’s day named Tulip. Satisfied, “Okay, so empty your pockets and your satchel.”
“Uh? What for?”
“I need to check and see what you are bringing in-country.”
Outish shoved his hands in his pockets. “But I’ve been cleared by Field Outfitting.”
Achelous smiled like a patient parent. Exaggerating his motions, he looked around the bay area. “Funny, I don’t see anyone from Field Outfitting here.”
“But they checked me,” he whined. “We went through the list.”
The patient smile never wavered. “You haven’t been cleared for insertion unless your team leader clears you, and today your team leader is Chief of CivMon. Now dump your pockets.”
Outish caught the edge in the word dump. “Okay, okay.” On the stainless table next to the field operator’s station, he emptied his pockets and satchel. The field generator operator, a grizzled technician who looked like he’d been around since they discovered aural energy, gave a tired smirk to Achelous. Achelous rolled his eyes.
Picking up a Transgenix multi-func from the items emptied on the table, Achelous asked, “What’s this?”
“That’s my multi-func.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Achelous saw the operator turn away, shaking his head. The man would probably laugh, but he’d seen it too many times before.
“And you were going to carry it onto a Class E world?”
“But it has all of my music!”
This time the operator did laugh.
Achelous regained his patient smile. “Your music stays home. Take up the flute; they travel well.” Achelous tossed the Transgenix into a holding bin for Outish to retrieve on his return. “You have your camo multi-func; that’s more than enough.”
“But— it doesn’t play music,” Outish exclaimed loudly.
“On purpose,” retorted Achelous. Then the chief inspector saw something peeking above the neckline of Outish’s shirt. He opened the intern’s vest and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Hey, what are you doing?” Outish complained, trying to slap away the questing hands.
“Undo your shirt.”
“Why?” he asked petulantly.
Achelous arched an eyebrow, his patient smile gone.
“Okay, okay.” He undid his shirt.
The patient smile returned. He pulled the hem of the undershirt out from Outish’s pants and saw a label. “Hey, Wian,” he asked the operator, “do we allow Terestian Mica II on Dianis?”
“Without looking up from his hologrid, the operator responded, “Nope. Banned on all Class E.”
“But I’ll get cold!”
“You wanted to go in-country so bad,” said Achelous. “Welcome to Dianis. You can wear leather, duck, silk, wool, shearcloth—”
“But wool itches,” Outish grumbled.
“That’s what the shearcloth is for. I don't recommend silk; it will mark you as a rich man, which you aren’t, so someone would think you stole it. Where we’re going, we want the respect of the locals, not their suspicion.”
With their gear packed and Outish finally passing inspection, they collected their IDB-trained eenus and led them onto the shift platform. “These eenus know what happens when they stand in a shift zone, so they won’t bolt,” Achelous told the intern. “But they will be skittish when we first get in-country. So just mount up right away, and we’ll be off.”
Outish nodded nervously.
They shifted in-country. Mounting up and quickly clearing the shift zone, Achelous led the way, cutting through the brush and intersecting a trail heading north.
They stopped at a promontory overlooking a broad plain, and Achelous dismounted. In one hand, he held Echo’s reins; the eenu contentedly browsed the fresh spring shoots. Eenus were always eating. Stop for thirty seconds, and the herbivores would find something to eat.
Taking a deep breath, he let the stress of the past days ebb away. I love going in-country, he reflected and exhaled slowly, making the mental transition from Central Station and modern civilization to Dianis and its pristine wilderness. The air was crisp and cold, the sun rising behind them. He felt at peace. More than ever, he knew this was where he belonged.
Outish squirmed in his saddle like he had a case of hemorrhoids. Achelous, aware of the young intern’s discomfort, tore himself from the view and went to check their pack eenu. Seeing Outish wriggle, he asked as he tightened the pack straps, “Problems with the saddle?”
“No,” Outish said defensively, “It’s just that, well, with no fur down there, you know, on my butt, it feels like I’m going to fall off.”
Achelous checked the pack girth and satisfied, mounted up on Echo with the pack eenu tethered behind. “Well, you’ll get used to it. Tulip there is about as broke as they come.” Then on second thought, he turned to look at the young Halorite, “You did take the injection learning courses for riding eenu’s?”
“Yes!” But he immediately demonstrated his poor riding skills by needlessly sawing on Tulip’s reins. Regardless, the old steed correctly interpreted the message and, without complaint and with considerable tolerance for her young charge, moved out.
Achelous waited for the young intern to get some distance down the trail before he remounted. The panorama before him lifted his spirits like the eagle he spied soaring above the plain. Letting the view fill his soul, he smiled. Backing Echo, he gave her a squeeze, and she trotted after Tulip.
They halted near the forest rendezvous. This time Achelous checked their positioning in his bible. Baryy and a party of six Timberkeeps from Wedgewood were to meet them and escort them into Wedgewood. IDB tactics, contributed by Achelous, ensured they did not meet near the shift zone to reduce the chances someone could accidentally locate the concealed entrance to the underground field generator bay. Some generator bays couldn’t be physically entered from the planet’s surface, like the one near the Auro Na temple; they were shift-ins only. The Wedgewood generator site, however, had a concealed exterior door and a supply cache and could double as a cramped but welcome sanctuary in a time of need.
“How could an eenu make that?” asked Outish.
Closing his bible, Achelous looked up. “What?”
“Over there,” Outish pointed at a tree trunk. “It’s the right height for eenu rub, but how could a bull make that sort of carving with its antlers?”
Achelous cocked his head. He moseyed Echo over to the Twitter Olem, a tall, smooth-bark tree with a pale blue sheen. “That’s not eenu rub. That’s a trog glyph.”
“Trog?” Outish contorted his Doroman face, getting used to the changes in facial muscles. “Oh, you mean Nexisamaphibia Isueltai?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Achelous. “Otherwise known in the Dianis vernacular as a troglodyte.”
“Uh, well, that’s hardly a precise term. Troglodyte can refer to so many species.”
Achelous gave the astrobiologist intern a sidelong look. “Don’t worry, we’re on Dianis, and on Dianis, troglodyte refers to big, ornery, warm-blooded lizards. Now get out your multi-func and scan that glyph. I need to know what it says.”
Happy to oblige, as he was actually doing work that applied to his astrobiology certification, he pulled out a book, The Lore of the Woods, that doubled as his carbon-wafer multi-func, and flipped to the page that enabled the scanner.
Relieved that the intern might actually know what he was doing, Achelous watched Outish nudge Tulip closer to the tree with just knee pressure as he used both hands to hold the book and run the scanner. Guess the kid did take injection learning for eenu riding.
“It’s processing,” said Outish. “It says—oh, this can’t be good.”
“What?”
“It says Spinex Tribe. Stump man die.”
His eyebrows narrowed. Achelous moved closer to study the carving. “You’re the biologist. Tell me how long the carving has been there.”
“Well, depending on the levels of oxidation, subsequent discoloration, the onset of new growth, and the extent of overgrowth, we should be able to calculate—"
“Outish, there’s running sap draining from the scar. The bloody trogs carved it yesterday.”
“Yes, I was getting to that.”
“It’s a warning glyph. The trogs have expanded their range, and they’ve declared war on the Timberkeeps.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because stump man is the derogatory form for Timberkeep. The trogs are insulting the Timberkeeps by referring to trees as stumps.”
Outish swallowed. He began to regret the idea of masquerading as a Doroman changeling. Looking around, the forest took on more of an ominous aspect; the bucolic image it held for him just moments before evaporated with the translation of an innocuous carving. Instead of being pillars of nature, the tree boles were signposts of threats. He shivered and looked around for more glyphs. “Why are we meeting Baryy and the Timberkeeps so far from the entry point?”
Achelous pulled out his handbolt, a compact crossbow with a clever cocking mechanism. A hidden detent in the grip responded to his aural signature and enabled the built-in laser. The charge status indicator glowed, showing fifty. He released the detent, and the indicator resumed the appearance of wood. “Your weapon charged?”
“Uh, yes, Field Outfitting checked it before we left.”
“Check it again,” he said, holstering his weapon and wheeling Echo about. “What are the rules for using the laser?”
“Uh, only in the last resort when your life or that of a fellow agent is at immediate risk of great harm. A conventional indigenous weapon should be used in all cases until it proves ineffective in deterring the threat. Discharge of a non-indigenous weapon, regardless of need, shall be reported to IDB headquarters at the earliest possible time.”
“Very good,” Achelous smiled, trying to reassure the young intern as he fumbled with enabling the charge indicator on his handbolt. “Remove your glove and try it.”
Outish tried it, and the cheery glow of the charge indicator showed eighty.
Seeing the number, Achelous started. “Eighty? What model is that?”
“Um, the guy in outfitting said it was the latest, a Seventy-Two T.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to get me one of those. I wonder if the laser’s bigger?”
Outish shrugged. Weapons weren’t his thing. Animals, plants, bugs, and anything alive were what interested him.
“The reason we didn’t meet Baryy at the shift point is we don’t want to take the risk of anyone thinking there might be something special. I wouldn’t put it past the Paleos to dig up the place.” He started Echo down the trail. “If they dug enough, they’d eventually find the generator bunker. They know the Ancients liked to bury things, so the Paleowrights are mad about digging. I swear to the spirits that every inquisitor and examiner has a shovel strapped to their eenu.”
Nearing the rendezvous with Baryy and the Timbers, Achelous pulled out his bible and brought up the inventory panel for the IDB cache at the shift point. He scrolled down through the inventory. Hmm, I see Baryy has been there ahead of me. Ten surveillance and five defense nanobots were checked out. Forty of the recon, surveillance, and defense bots remained. They were expensive little toys, and the IDB was fortunate to get an allotment as the bulk of the bots were going to the war effort.
He programmed ten recon bots and five defense bots and set them to launch on an intercept course for him and Outish. Five of the recon bots set to seek concealment and bivouac halfway between here and Wedgewood, a good day’s ride north. The remaining recon bots were to circle, at intervals, three hundred meters out from him. No bigger than a bumble bee and looking remarkably like one, it would take the bots some time to reach their position. If needed, he could set them to emergency power, but their tiny electromotive engines could overheat. A marvel of nanotechnology, their filament wings could beat many millions of times before wearing out, collecting solar energy with each stroke.
The defense bots he set to trail his position by fifty meters and loiter when possible. They would find a tree branch or blade of grass to perch to reduce wear and avoid attracting the attention of birds. He set the primary threat signature to troglodyte and threat priority to self-preservation unless the primary threat entered the search radius. Then their programming would change to agent preservation. They’d lost more than a few of the bots to the Pomericia Fly Catcher, a beautiful teal and scarlet bird. Unfortunately, the spirited little bird was adept at not only catching flies and moths but nanobots too. Sadly, because bots were programmed to release self-destruct nano-dissemblers in case of power failure or capture, once the bot was consumed by the bird, the decomposing bot would kill it.
The two parties met at the rendezvous. Baryy made the introductions between them and Ogden, the leader of the Timberkeep party. The Timberkeeps, as a whole, were curious about Outish, his clan, and his lineage. His official, carefully crafted story portrayed him as a runner for Achelous and as a member of a Plains Doroman tribe from south of Tomis, far from Wedgewood. Back at Central Station, Outish had drilled on the Doroman injection learning modules and supplemented them with further research.
“Tork River? I hear there is good fishing there?”
“You guys build boats?”
“Any cute girls in your clan?”
“Yea, how many?”
The questions from the Timberkeeps came fast, and Outish handled all of them, and sometimes with his imagination when they went way off script.
Amidst the questions, Achelous noticed one of the younger Timbers, Mergund, staring at Outish’s ears. Achelous turned away, trying to suppress a smile. The young Halorite was in for some ribbing. Oh well, the lad wanted to come in-country.
“Ogden,” Achelous addressed the leader of the Timberkeep party, “we came across a warning glyph about a mile back along the trail. Are you having problems with trogs?”
Standing a half-hand shorter than Achelous—as was normal for Doromen—balding, with bushy eyebrows, a mustache, and a thick brown beard that hung to his chest, Ogden’s eyes were cheery, a twinkle of mirth hovering at the corners. A blacksmith by trade, his hands were heavily callused and scarred. “Oi, the loglards are up to their usual connivances, flustering and blustering about. We’ve set Lord Sedge on them. He’s out here somewhere abouts.”
“Lord Sedge?” Achelous asked. “You mean Sedge the Warlord?”
“Oi. That’s him,” chimed a younger Timber whose beard resembled peach fuzz.
Achelous glanced at Baryy, who nodded. He couldn’t help noticing the agent sported a Timberkeep earring. Evidently, he was at home in Wedgewood.
“Oi. They call him Lord Sedge,” Baryy offered.
Achelous noticed Baryy’s use of the Timberkeep slang. He’s definitely lived with them long enough. Facing Ogden, a man he instinctively trusted, he shared a candid opinion. “Sedge is not a lord. No vested lord would hire himself out as a mercenary captain.” Achelous paused. “But still, I’m surprised he’s signed on with you. Sedge has led battalions. The King of Mestrich did offer him a lordship, but he had to take a permanent seat at the king’s table and lead the kingdom’s forces. Sedge turned him down. He loathes being a barracks boss; he's a field commander.” The IDB Dianis database on influential individuals, human or otherwise, went into detail, even to foibles. Which proved useful when a field agent encountered the person. Much of the data came from recon bots and Achelous and his CivMon teams. Sedge the Warlord had an interesting dossier starting with his arrival in Mestrich. “How many men did he bring with him?”
“Two companies,” replied Ogden, “and I know he’s no lord, but the boys like to refer to him as such.”
“Two companies?” Achelous said, surprised. “That’s two hundred men and a big expense. He usually contracts for a whole season. I’m surprised you can afford him.”
Achelous read the guarded expression now dueling with Ogden’s normally cheerful countenance. “We can afford it. And he’s been good for us. He’s out here now with a company running sweeps for the troglodytes.”
“Oh, is that why you hired him? To fend off troglodyte incursions?”
Ogden hedged, “That and to organize and train our lads to fight better. He’s organizing the wards to mount patrols, keep watch on our borders.”
“This is farther north and higher than what I think the trogs are accustomed to, and the glyph on the tree singled out Timberkeeps. I know humans and trogs are not friends, but we usually just avoid each other. If the trogs are coming up here, I would think, well, it's almost as if they are after you.”
The intrigue surrounding the troglodytes was lost on Outish. He just wanted to see one in real life, not as a holovid. For the moment, he forgot he looked like a Doroman. His insatiable curiosity combined with the genetic oddity of warm-blooded reptiles was a combination ready for his insatiable curiosity about anything living. He'd taken time back at Central Station to study them in-depth. Unlike the non-sentient reptiles on Dianis, the sentient species of earlking, lizardmen, and troglodytes were warm-blooded. True, their heat regulatory systems were inefficient compared to those of humans, but the reptiles could still sustain their own body temperatures. He agreed with Achelous, though. In his study of Dianis fauna, he would have thought this oak-pine habitat zone too cold for the troglodytes, at least in the spring. Yet the glyph was recently carved. Could the trogs have a more efficient heat chemistry than first assumed? If so, does that make them more intelligent than the other reptiles? Current science presented a compelling case for linking the ability to regulate body temperature in bipedal reptiles to their cognitive capacities.
Ogden hooked his thumbs in his belt. He ignored Achelous’s implied question. “Our feud with the Great Swamp trogs goes back three generations, before my time when we were living in the Southern Forest, a day’s ride from the Great Latitude Swamp. In those years, we traded freely with Hebert, and, as you said, trogs and men aren’t meant to mix. But back then, we didn’t fight the way we do now. We even managed to trade tork eggs and marsh cat. The Hebert city folk have a taste for marsh cat bloom. They grind it up and smoke it in their pipes.”
Achelous nodded. Tangential to his spice business, he’d received requests for marsh cat, but IDB doctrine forbade merchandizing psychoactive drugs as part of in-country operations. He preferred trading in edible spices, gemstones, and weapons. Weapons for the captains and generals so he’d know where the next war was brewing. Gems for the kings and merchant’s wives so he’d know where the next coup was forming. Finally, spices for the cooks and chefs because they were always bragging about who was coming to the ball, so he’d know what alliances were forming.
“So what happened?” asked Baryy.
A variety of emotions played on the blacksmith’s face. He started once, then twice, and finally settled on “I don’t think anyone really knows. Just that, the trogs grew increasingly hostile until, one night, they attacked. The clan expected trouble and was ready for them, almost. Trogs are devilishly good climbers and were over the walls even as the alarm bells rang. It was a bad fight; the clan lost heavily trying to hold the wall, but in the city center, the clan council had ordered three great bonfires readied, with hundreds of naphtha arrows stacked nearby—"
Outish looked at Achelous, “Naphtha?”
“Trogs don’t like fire.”
Ogden chuckled, “No, boy, they don’t. While their hides are thick and, in places, tough as plate armor, their skin oil burns easily. So our archers shot their burning arrows and drove the screeching trogs back into the swamp to heal their scorched hides in the muck.
“For some months, an uneasy stalemate settled in with the trogs constantly raiding our villages outside Whispering Bough and the Timbers mounting patrols. Then word reached the Bough from our fellow Life Believers in Hebert that the Antiquarian Church had grown frustrated with the constant warring in the countryside and was preparing to march its regiments to settle the dispute. No one can explain why, but the Paleowrights sided with the trogs against us, their own kind, and the churchmen came to demand the Timberkeeps leave on the points of twelve hundred spears.” Ogden’s fellow Timberkeeps were solemn listening to the tale. The story of Whispering Bough chronicled their exile from their ancestral homelands and defined their existence. While life was good in Wedgewood, it would always be the place they fled to out of fear.
“When the clan elders met to discuss the treachery, the clan chose the better of two bad fates. They chose to immediately evacuate Whispering Bough and the outlying communities—on their terms, not some farce dictated by the Church. That night Azerorn Talltree, the clan’s greatest warrior, led a surprise night attack on the trog war camp.
“Life is about small favors," he said, twisting the end of his beard, thick and smoked with grey, “and Mother herself granted one to Azerorn that night, for the wind blew out of the east, carrying with it the sea air and smells of the Angraris. The trog’s keen sense of smell was for naught. With kindling, naphtha, and spark boxes, our warriors launched their attack. Outnumbered heavily, Azerorn planned to surprise, confuse, and shock the trogs into disarray and then quickly retreat, hoping to buy time for the clan to flee north.
“And success flowered there that night, but in the years since, has withered. The troglodyte chieftain and a stout band of his warriors pursued the retreating Azerorn through the flaming arrows, and there, in the swamp, did battle our Whispering Bough champion.”
“They say the ring of axe against axe could be heard in the highest minarets of Hebert, three leagues distant. The troglodyte chief was fast and powerful, as are all trogs, but Azerorn was filled with conviction and the stalwart blood of Doromen. In the end, sacrifice for friends and family conquered hatred and revenge. Azerorn smote the trog chieftain and left his bloody corpse to stain the Great Latitude.”
The Timberkeeps were silent; even Ogden brooded.
“Uh—” Outish stirred, befuddled, searching the Timberkeeps, “Why so sad?”
“Tis simple, lad,” said the blacksmith, “We believe had Azerorn made good his escape without killing the chieftain, there’d be no feud. To the trogs, a great wrong was done to them, and rather than let our clan flee beyond their ill will, the troglodytes issued a kurchka, a blood oath, that they would never rest until their chieftain was avenged. And here we stand today, sixty years later, fretting over warning glyphs. For the trogs are unavenged and never will be.” With the last, he put his hand on the hand axe holstered at his belt.
Achelous, a trader of weapons, out of habit, glanced at Ogden's eenu. A broad double-bladed battle-axe rested strapped behind the saddle.
“And that be the cause of the Timber’s Curse, the sickness that dogs our every step,” Mergund challenged.
“There’s no proof the brain galls are from a trog curse,” retorted Ogden.
“There could be other causes for the malady,” Baryy interjected, “and probably are. It could be something in the soil or water in Wedgewood that was not present in Whispering Bough.”
Achelous calmly turned to Baryy, his expression flat. Baryy looked away, his face suffused. The agent was treading dangerously close to violating ULUP. Providing information or direct assistance to an indigenous population, in this case, the Timberkeeps, on how to cure a disease was strictly forbidden. Achelous made to change the subject. “Ogden—”
“Please, you may call me Og.”
Achelous nodded, “Og, I make it almost seventy leagues to the Great Latitudes swamp. Also, it is much higher here than in the swamp. Something just doesn’t smell right. How did the trogs know to find you here?”
“The Church told them,” blurted Mergund.
Ogden looked pained. “We don’t know that—for certain.”
Achelous rubbed his chin. “Okay, it's been sixty years. Word would get to the trogs eventually.” He frowned, then nodded at Mergund, “The Paleowrights could have told them. It doesn’t really matter. This is cold country for trogs. Why come now? And it’s only spring; if the trogs are here now, there will certainly be trouble by summer.” He left it unsaid as to how hot and dry it could get. “They could,” he hesitated, not wanting to be alarmist, “reach Wedgewood. What's happened in the Great Latitude to cause them to come here now?” Achelous, of course, knew exactly why the troglodytes were this far from the Great Latitudes. He and Baryy exchanged a glance. The question he wanted answered was did the Timberkeeps know the true connection between the troglodytes and Paleowrights. What did the Timberkeeps suspect? While the pirates were a tool of the Paleowrights, the troglodytes were their thralls.
“What are you saying?” Ogden guarded his expression.
“I’m saying troglodytes have proven to be easily manipulated. They’re primal creatures, quick to take offense. I could see, not that it is true, the Paleowrights encouraging the trogs to harass you. But like you said, it’s been sixty years. What's fanning the flames now?"
“Those churchmen, they hate us too,” chided another of the Timberkeeps. “We believe in Mother, and they hate her.”
“What would the Church have to gain from sending the troglodytes after us?” Ogden gruffed.
Exasperated, lacking the patience of Achelous, Baryy interjected, “Gold, Og, your gold.” Baryy waved his arm in the direction of Wedgewood. “You have a gold mine up there. The Paleowrights need money for all the churches they’re building and Ancient sites they are guarding. Those Scarlet Saviors don’t come cheap.” Both Achelous and Baryy knew it wasn’t gold that drove the Paleowrights, but the bullion served as a useful surrogate.
Ogden shook his head. “Noi, trogs don’t trade in gold. It has no value to them. What would the Church offer the trogs for them to invade Mount Mars and attack cold Wedgewood?” He shook his bald head dismissively.
If only you knew, Og, and apparently you don’t. “Does it matter?” asked Achelous. “With control of your gold mine, the Paleowrights could buy whatever they promised the trogs.” He arched an eyebrow, “Og, perhaps it's not the gold in your gold mine that they want, but the aquamarine you found.”
The Timberkeep’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”
Achelous turned to Baryy, who supplied, “Og, it’s not much of a secret. There’s a whopping great pegmatite sitting on the floor in Murali’s.” This was even news to Achelous, whose eyes gave away his alarm.
"And Murali's," Baryy went on, "is not exactly the sleepy little tavern it used to be, with all the gold miners, prospectors, and carpenters flocking to Wedgewood. Sometimes you can’t even get a stool at Husher’s DinDin, and you know how greasy that place is. Murali’s is the best pub between here and Hebert. Anyone who walks in there half-schooled in the lore of the Ancients will have an idea of what that blue slab of crystal is.”
Achelous finally asked, his voice a harsh whisper, “How big is it?”
Baryy, his expression neutral, said nonchalantly, “Standing on the floor, it reaches your waist.”
Achelous gaped at Ogden, “And you’ve got that sitting in the open?”
