The wagon rocked from side to side as it passed over the rough cobbles at the city’s western gate, jolting Zefir and Nazeem around in their seats. The guards crossed their arms over their chests in a local sign of good luck as the powerful oxen rolled the wagon across the threshold, then started on the cranks to seal the great gate shut once more. When Zefir had spoken to Runa, leader of the Guild of Gates, to ask for permission to leave through the west gate and enter the Vastglen, she had laughed, assuming he was joking. When she realized he was serious, she performed the same gesture of good luck, before reminding him that no trade caravan had entered the gloom-infested forest for years, and none had returned for decades. When he’d dropped the payment for egress onto the guildhall’s table, she’d merely shrugged, and handed him the paperwork.
Now that he and Nazeem could actually see the forest in full, without the obstructions of fortifications, a tremor of nervousness shuddered through him. There was certainly something foreboding about the place, something sinister. Zefir shot a glance at Nazeem next to him, searching his old friend’s face for any sign of reluctance, but could find none. The man seemed as sure as ever. The cadre of guards, hunters, foragers, and scouts he’d assembled didn’t look quite so confident though, Zefir noted. Zefir had asked Nazeem to collect a dozen veterans for the job. That Nazeem had selected a full twenty did little to assuage his fear.
“Where do we meet your dungeoneers?” Nazeem asked, as if sensing Zefir’s unease, and hoping to distract him from it.
“By the forest’s edge,” he clarified. “Just follow the trail and we should find their camp.” Zefir paused for a moment, considering. “You’re sure our cargo is okay?” he asked.
“Positive,” Nazeem replied. “No need to worry. It’s all under control.”
Zefir nodded silently in approval, then glanced back at the rolling vehicle, the size of a small cottage, and at the locks—both magical and mundane—keeping it sealed. Behind it stretched a short caravan of smaller wagons, loaded with supplies for the long journey. Zefir fixed his eyes back on the forest’s edge. They were getting close enough now to make out individual trees and the depth of shadow between their trunks. Images flashed into his mind of the guides he’d read about the place, most many decades old. Illuminated manuscript and rough charcoal sketches detailing the pony-sized spiders, the wild centaur gangs, the capricious dryads, and the ambulatory thickets of moss known locally as ‘shambling mounds’. He could only hope that the team they’d assembled was up to the task.
*
Zefir heard Mal and his crew before he saw them. Rough laughter carried on the stifled breeze that encircled the Vastglen. When eventually his eyes managed to pick them out on the forest’s edge, he noted that each was dressed in leather armor stained almost black, letting them meld with the shadows of the trees with ease. He looked down at his own purple robes, and considered quickly changing them with a subtle flick of the wrist, then decided to save his magical reserves—the day was far from over yet.
As they approached, Mal’s crew settled down and eyed up the caravan headed toward them, their eyes flicking around, quickly counting their number and appraising the wagons. Zefir nodded to Nazeem, indicating that all was as expected, and as the oxen began to slow he jumped down from his seat at the front of the wagon.
“Mal, good to see you again,” he smiled. “I hope you’re ready for the journey ahead. I’m sure it will feel even longer than it is.” He eyed up their baggage—they’d packed light. “Have you brought enough supplies?”
“Plenty, professor,” Mal grunted with a curt nod. “There’s no shortage of food in the Vastglen provided you’d enough bolts,” he said, nudging a case of crossbow ammunition with his toe. “I hadn’t counted on such a large entourage, though,” Mal said, glancing toward the caravan.
“Better safe than sorry,” Zefir replied, almost apologetically before he remembered who was employing who. He quickly looked over the half dozen dungeoneers that Mal had brought with him. Not one among them was free from scars. Zefir noted two in particular with magical burns.
“They won’t all make it,” Mal said matter-of-factly, drawing Zefir’s attention. “Have you told them that?”
“They’re aware of the risks,” Zefir replied coldly, having left the particulars of their employment to Nazeem.
Mal nodded his approval. “What’s in the wagon?” he enquired, a glint of curiosity illuminating his beady eyes.
“Private cargo.”
“Understood,” Mal said, his searching eyes leaving the vehicle and returning to Zefir’s face, which betrayed nothing. “In that case, we’re ready to leave when you are.”
“Then let us begin,” Zefir concurred. “May the journey be swift and unimpeded.”